


Like Stars

by ncfan



Series: Textual Ghosts [25]
Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe, And now it's up to Idril to pick up the pieces, But he would have been better off sticking to being King of Gondolin, F/M, Gen, He never meant any harm, POV Female Character, Poor Turgon kind of screwed up as High King, Remembrance, That AU where Idril is Gil-Galad, Which she does, Women Being Awesome, Women being leaders
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-29
Updated: 2014-06-01
Packaged: 2018-01-21 06:18:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 30,354
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1540763
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ncfan/pseuds/ncfan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>From Idril Celebrindal to Idril Gil-Galad.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Part One

**Author's Note:**

> So, I was thinking about all of the different possible origins for Gil-Galad: son of Fingon, son of Orodreth, scion of the House of Fëanor, popped out of the ether like an amoeba… Anyways, I got to thinking: what is a pre-existing character was Gil-Galad? I’ve already seen a fic where Finduilas Faelivrin was Gil-Galad, and I decided I wanted to do someone different. Idril seemed like a natural choice.
> 
> Anyways, this was going to be all one big oneshot, until I got about a third of the way done and realized that if I keep going at the rate that I am, it was going to be 20k by the time I was done. As such, I’ve split this up into three chapters. As for posting the other two in the next few days, I’ll try. Exam week’s coming up; I don’t really have a whole lot of time.

**I.**

They came to the Havens of Sirion a band of ragged, starving band of refugees, but she came with her head held high, and there was no one who would have denied Idril Celebrindal her rights. The Gondolindrim already called her 'Queen', their clear-eyed, level-headed lady. What few Noldor lived in the Havens were leaderless refugees, from Nargothrond or Hithlum or Dorthonion, or even from the east where the surviving sons of Fëanor still held sway. They chafed under Sindarin rule. Idril might have preferred a different reason for why they were so willing to accept her as their leader, but this was as good a reason as any.

The Isle of Balar was another matter entirely. For the acceptance of the Noldor there, she would need Galadriel's support.

Anyone who knew Galadriel well knew that she was ambitious, that she was a great leader when given the chance to be one. They knew that she _wanted_ to rule. Idril had not seen Galadriel since she was a growing girl, and she knew that much about her. She was not without charisma, at least the Noldor thought so (The Sindar Idril had spoken with were significantly more ambivalent concerning the lady).

But Galadriel's chance to gain leadership of the Noldor as a whole had long since passed her by. Many of the Noldor resented the fact that she had resided in safety in Doriath until it was ruined, paying no mind to the refugees clamoring at the borders of the forest, only for Thingol to turn them away. Why had she not protested? Why had she not done more to help them? Many of the Noldor muttered that Galadriel had no right to the High Kingship of her people, when she had abandoned those same people long ago. ' _More Doriathrin than Noldorin, now.'_

(With the discomfort that came with clarity, Idril knew that much of what applied to Galadriel applied also to herself. No one muttered against her. No one said that she was 'more Gondolindrim than Noldorin.' No one said that she had abandoned her people, that she had dwelled in safety in Gondolin while the Noldor outside starved; the fact that there were many Noldor living in Gondolin had probably helped. There was certainly muttering against Turgon to the same effect as there were against Galadriel— _How dare he call himself High King; where was he when we were alone and desolate in the wilderness?_ —but none against Idril. The Noldor seemed to think that Idril, as a properly obedient daughter, could do nothing but obey her daughter, but she still looked upon the refugees who had been living in the Havens since long before and felt guilt. She would have to do more for them than her father had done.)

Galadriel was no fool. She had to see that she would never be Queen, not of all the Noldor. But that didn't mean that she couldn't become a rival, if she so wished. Thus the need for this meeting.

Idril smiled as the small ship came ashore. Galadriel stepped down off of the gangplank, looking as tall and proud and unbowed as she had when Idril had last seen her, over four hundred years ago. "Cousin Artanis," she greeted her.

The older nís's expression was unreadable as she approached, but Idril knew that there were a number of things that Galadriel could not possibly have missed. She couldn't have missed the fact that Idril greeted her in Quenya instead of Sindarin, and pure Quenya at that, not the strange amalgamation of Quenya and Mithrim Sindarin that had proliferated in Gondolin. She could not have missed that Idril had had her meet her outside of the Havens of Sirion (Galadriel had been barred from living within the Havens when the Iathrim first arrived; Idril had been unable to discover why), instead of Idril agreeing to meet with Galadriel on Balar. Galadriel could not have missed the retinue of Noldorin nobles standing behind Idril, survivors from Gondolin and Nargothrond—not large enough to make this meeting humiliating for Galadriel, but large enough that their purpose as witnesses was readily apparent. She could not have missed the diamond-crusted gold coronet on Idril's head.

They stared at one another in silence for what seemed like an eternity (Though it could only have been a moment). Idril stood with her hands held out, palms up and empty, and in spite of herself, she felt thoroughly awkward.

The two nissi both wore plain linen clothes, the best summer garments refugees could afford. They were both thin, the tell of exiles bereft of their home, living poorly compared to what they were used to. But Galadriel still had that remote, distant dignity about her, the pride of a daughter of the House of Finwë. She seemed untouched in her heart by all the tragedies she met with. Idril could not say the same of herself.

But then, Galadriel's lips curled in an expression of wry approval. She rested her hands on top of Idril's much smaller ones, and murmured, "Greetings, my Queen."

Idril beamed.

**II.**

Balar was harrowing.

There was no other word for it; Balar was truly harrowing. The Havens of Sirion were what was kindly referred to a as a "new city", and what was less kindly and more realistically referred to as a "glorified refugee camp." Its walls were only thirty years old, and yet they began to crumble; Idril had asked about them, and was appalled to discover that, in the builders' haste, only certain sections of the walls had even been built with foundations of any kind. The ground was soft and Sirion didn't possess the resources (or the leisure) to rebuild them.

But Balar was worse. Balar was a city of tents with only a few stone structures; Idril was struck with a horrid stench as her ship docked, a stench she recognized as that of latrine trenches. She remembered the smell from the camps in Mithrim during the early years of the Noldor's Exile; she felt as though she was a small child once again. There was also the matter of the wounded.

Idril was truly thankful that she had not arrived at the coast just after the Nirnaeth. From what Círdan told her, the numbers of wounded residing on Balar in those days was massive; the whole isle was covered with a pall of misery. These days, those who numbered the wounded here were those refugees recently arrived from the north, the east, and yes, Gondolin. Idril visited the houses in which they were being healed, cared for, or simply allowed to die in greater comfort than they would have found outside.

"It reminds me of Mithrim," Tuor muttered in her ear, looking with sympathy on those unlucky enough to be housed in these dark, low-roofed buildings. The houses of the wounded were among the few stone structures on Balar, but no one envied those who lived there, Eldar or Edain.

"You too?" Idril murmured, watching as a child sat down at her mother's beside and gave the nís her noontime ration.

Tuor actually smiled, albeit grimly and briefly. "In the Grey-Elves' camp, we would occasionally find Noldor who had escaped the purge in Hithlum; they were rarely in good shape. Mother—" and by this Idril knew he meant Gilrin, not Rían "—was a healer, and she would have me help her as much as I could. I didn't learn very much, but it left me with long-lasting memories."

Beside him, Egalmoth looked more than a little green. He fixed his gaze on Idril and bowed briefly. "I… Your Highness…"

"You're excused, Egalmoth."

He nodded gratefully and left. Idril grimaced. She had forgotten that Egalmoth, for all that he was a seasoned warrior, was very easily and deeply affected by others' suffering. She herself had learned to change what she could and stomach what she could not, but not everyone was the same.

Tuor left not long after Egalmoth, saying that the two of them would go ahead and look for Círdan—Idril had come to Balar to speak with him. That left Idril alone with Galadriel, who looked at the injured with such a determinedly impassive face that Idril winced. She wondered how many times Galadriel had been in these houses.

"I don't know what to do to help them," Idril admitted, flinching as someone in the back corner, cloaked by shadows, wailed. "For their injuries, I mean."

As High Queen, there were any number of things Idril could do for the Noldor. Even without the great wealth that her father, uncle and grandfather had possessed, Idril could arrange things to help them. She could forge alliances, could cooperate with the local Sindar to improve the lives of the Noldor; it helped that Círdan, at least, held no hostility in his heart towards the Gondolindrim, and that many of the Gondolindrim were Sindar or had Sindarin blood.

But here, there were people in suffering, and Idril could do nothing to help. Idril did not know how to heal. As of the Fall of Gondolin, she had taken far more lives than she had saved. It was like watching Elenwë sink, like listening to Aredhel as she struggled even to breathe, like pleading with Turgon to come away with them, and watching as the tower in which he stood collapsed.

Galadriel put a hand on her shoulder. "Then follow me, and I will show you what I can."

**III.**

Idril was amazed, sometimes, that of all of the members of the Doriathrin royal family that could have survived Doriath's fall, it was little Elwing. Not Dior, the king, nor Nimloth, the queen, nor even the little princes, but Elwing. A tiny girl, frail and nearly silent, was now the High Queen of the Sindar. Certainly, Oropher in Sirion and Celeborn on Balar divided the authority of the position between them for as long as Elwing was a child, but she still bore the weight of it on her shoulders. It seemed cruel, honestly.

Idril was amazed also by how little resistance there was when she began to draw closer to Elwing, and Elwing to her. Many of the Iathrim in the Havens of Sirion were suspicious of the Noldor, even of the Gondolindrim who had played no part in Doriath's fall. She would have thought that more of Elwing's people would have had objections to the idea of her forming any kind of closeness to the Noldorin Queen. However, those who were able to bear witness barely noticed when Idril began seeking out the company of the little Sindarin sovereign.

And finally, it amazed Idril how many different ways those around her had for treating Elwing.

Eärendil was delighted to have a playmate his own age, and Idril was delighted to see that Elwing had warmed up to her son, in her own way. Sometimes, she would look out of a window in what the residents of Sirion called the "palace", look out onto the street below and see the two of them playing there, under Erestor or Nellas or Thranduil's supervision. Sometimes, she would look outside and see Voronwë trying his hardest to carry the two of them on his shoulders at the same time. If the window was open, she could hear Eärendil giggling and pleading with his "uncle" to carry them just a little further. Elwing frankly looked a little nervous at being so high up off of the ground, but Voronwë kept a steady arm around the girl, and there was no danger of either Elwing or Eärendil falling off.

Idril was continuing to make trips back and forth between Balar, and nowadays, though she would have wished it otherwise, she was taking Eärendil with her. The isle was in better shape than it was, now that the influx of refugees had lessened a bit (Idril had also sent some of the surviving Gondolindrim healers to the island), but it was by no means a safe place, or a happy one. Eärendil had already been subjected to the sort of early unhappiness that Idril knew all too well; she had no desire to subject him to any more. But he was her son, and she was the last mother who could be seen to be sheltering her child from life's unpleasantness. It was of some surprise to Idril when she was approached by one of the Sindarin lords, asking that Elwing and her escort be ferried over to the island as well. Idril wondered whether this was Lady Duileth or her husband Oropher's idea; it certainly wasn't Elwing's.

Galadriel seemed not to know what to do with the child; she held herself remote from Elwing, and sometimes, Idril would catch her looking at the girl's black curls with an air of sadness about her.

Eärendil had taken to Círdan like a fish to water, and the feeling seemed to be mutual, but the things Círdan considered useful to teach small children were a bit too rough for frail children such as Elwing. Galdor, whom Idril had left on Balar as representative of the Gondolindrim there, was much the same. The only difference was that Círdan noticed when Elwing was tiring out, while Galdor did not.

Celeborn could not be trusted to be alone with Elwing. If left to his own devices, he would do his best to spoil her shamelessly. From what Idril understood, Nimloth had been Celeborn's niece, so as with Duileth and her son, he was Elwing's kin. _"The House of Elmo does not abandon their own_ ," Duileth always said fiercely. Celeborn seemed the same. Galadriel would also mutter that she shuddered to think of what her husband would be like if they ever had a daughter, making Idril laugh.

Nellas would sit with Elwing, teaching her about plants and edible roots and tubers she could find in forests, if ever she needed to. Idril wasn't sure how much of these lessons Elwing remembered later. Thranduil sometimes popped up behind the two, and he and Nellas would sit together drinking out of a single flask, long after Elwing was gone.

Tuor called the girl 'little Star-queen.' Idril would have laughed at such casual blasphemy out of his lips, but always stopped short to see the way Elwing's solemn little face lit up when he called her that. Her husband treated Elwing exactly the same as he would have had she been his own daughter.

And sometimes, sometimes Elwing would come up and lean against Idril's side. Saying nothing, she would lean into the older nís, shutting her eyes as thin lines appeared on her forehead. Idril would stroke her hair gently, and she wouldn't try to ask what had the girl needing such comfort. She felt as though she already knew.

**IV.**

Eärendil was ten when Idril noticed his passion for sailing. Círdan had mentioned it to her during one of her visits to Balar, but she did not notice until nearly a year and a half after he made the comment.

"Mother, look!" he called gleefully from the shallows, rowing the coracle he had woven out of reeds. Eärendil waved at her, his blue eyes gleaming like stars under the light of Vása. Elwing sat in the coracle behind him, cheeks pink, seeming to be caught between elation and terror at every tremor of the craft.

Idril waved back. "Yes, sweetheart, I see it! It's very good."

"Compliment me," Voronwë muttered in her ear. "I helped him make it."

Without looking, Idril waved her hand backwards and slapped him on the chest. "Oh, hush," she said with a laugh, which took whatever sting there could have been in her reproof out of the words (And the slap). "Do you want him to hear you? Let him have his fun."

"I mean no offense, Lady Idril," he responded with a laugh of his own.

They watched the children as Eärendil paddled in the water and Elwing did her best not to fall out of the back. As she watched them, Idril felt her smile falter.

Círdan and Voronwë were already giving Eärendil sailing lessons. Though Idril found it amusing that their first lesson had been, quite simply, _Don't fall over the side of the boat_ , her amusement gave way easily to darker thoughts.

After the Nirnaeth, her father had become obsessed with the idea of sending mariners to Aman to seek the aid of the Valar. Even knowing about the Ban, Turgon had the ships that Círdan built for him staffed with mariners of Noldorin blood. He was so desperate to call upon the Valar for aid that he would even subject his mariners to the treacherous journey of finding the Straight Road—in retrospect, Idril knew that she should have taken that desperation as a sign of things to come. She was not her aunt, who could keep Turgon grounded even through his darkest times, and she could not remember what her mother may or may not have done to soothe her father's worries. Besides, Turgon so rarely showed that side of himself to his daughter. She could only watch, and make plans of her own.

Voronwë was one of the mariners Turgon had sent forth. Indeed, he was the only one who ever returned, and this could not even be attested to his skill, as he often recounted of his rescue by the Vala Ulmo from certain death. The others had all vanished; the most anyone ever found of them was suspiciously familiar driftwood.

As Eärendil grew, would he join those mariners in a fruitless search for Aman? Would he sail west, searching for the Straight Road, never to return? Would the driftwood left of his ship be all Idril had of him?

She prayed that he would not do this. The Valar would not help them. Even Ulmo, who claimed to love the Noldor still, had not actually done anything of substance in helping them. It seemed plain to Idril that the Valar had abandoned the Noldor long ago. They should not count on them to save them.

The Eldar spoke of sea-longing. More specifically, the Noldor who dwelled on the coast spoke of sea-longing. There were some who, upon coming to live beside the sea, could not bear to part from it. When they went inland, they dreamt of crashing waves and the cries of gulls; they knew no contentment until they returned to the seaside. These Noldor would find themselves trapped staring west. There were whispers that this was a curse set down by Mandos, dooming them to ever long for what they could not have, dooming them to long for Aman even though they had fled it over five hundred years ago. From what Idril knew of the Doomsman, she wouldn't have put it past him.*

Idril felt no sea-longing herself. She had no desire in her heart for the sea, nor for Aman; she simply happened to live on the coast. She had been born in Aman, had her half-formed memories of that place, but she did not understand the others when they said that Aman was so much better than Endóre. Perhaps when they all clung to the edge of Beleriand and feared ruin every day of their lives, Idril could understand it, but even at the height of Gondolin's glory, her people spoke of Endóre as a blighted place. In her memories, Aman was no better. In her memories, Aman was full of strife. Was Endóre really so much worse?

A few years later, a ship would come to dock in Sirion. Tuor came to her laughing and told her to go down to the docks. When Idril set foot on the quays, she saw a ship fresh from Balar, and there was Eärendil standing before the helm, waving at her. Just as she had done when he sailed reed coracles in the shallows, Idril waved back. She wondered if there would come the day when he would sail away, and she would not see him again.

**V.**

Penlodh and Teithril had both lost their lives when Gondolin was sacked; Idril had even borne witness to the latter's death. At times, however, though she had lost Penlodh's determination and Teithril's fierce inquisitiveness, she felt as though she had not lost either of them at all. Today was such a time, when their son sat across from her, scribbling furiously on parchment while the two Sindarin historians who had accompanied him watched on in amusement.

At least Idril was not the only one Pengolodh had called to meet with him today. Besides the Sindarin historians (Aduial and Himben by name), there was Egalmoth, Erestor, Melglir of the Mithrim and Duilin's daughters, Raumolírë and Curulírë, both of whom had survived the fall of Gondolin, even if their father had not. Idril wondered briefly why Pengolodh had not called for Tuor as he often did, but shelved the question, supposing that no doubt her husband was happy to be spared. Each one of them seemed more than a little impatient to be somewhere else, especially Erestor, who was fidgeting in his seat and giving Pengolodh an exasperated look. Idril got the impression that Erestor had some lore-related business of his own that he had been looking to attend to today.

Truth be told, Idril rarely had the sort of time that Pengolodh seemed to consider appropriate for his interviews. She rarely understood why he was so intent on gathering the information that he was. To be fair, she understood why he was attempting to preserve the Cirth writing system—even in Doriath, the Fëanorian Tengwar had quickly become the preferred alphabet once it was introduced, and Eldar who commonly wrote in Cirth were becoming scarce indeed. If Cirth was not preserved, it would only be a matter of time before no one was still alive to remember it. But as for the rest…

Well, perhaps it would be best to ask him directly.

"Pengolodh?" Though she was fairly certain that she was already sitting up straight, Idril straightened in her chair as she looked at the younger nér. "May I ask you a question?"

There was a distinctly startled look in his brown eyes. Whether it was from being spoken to instead of first speaking, or that his Queen would actually _ask_ permission to question him, Idril didn't know. "Yes, your Highness," he stammered, and Idril marveled at how much Pengolodh looked like a different person when his confident assurance left him. "Of course."

"Why do you consider it so important to record history the way you do? Do the memories of our people not suffice?"

Pengolodh looked momentarily affronted, and beside her Idril heard Egalmoth snort at the look on the historian's face, saw out of the corner of her eye as Erestor smirked slightly (If without malice). But after that moment passed, Pengolodh seemed to overcome whatever offense he might have taken at Idril's question. It would not do to lose his temper with the High Queen of the Noldor, after all.

"The memories of the Eldar, Calaquendi and Moriquendi—" Aduial frowned at him when the word 'Moriquendi' passed Pengolodh's lips "—alike are _not_ perfect, your Highness." His confidence had returned; in fact, he sounded very much like a schoolmaster giving a lesson to his students. "We do forget things, and what we remember we do not always remember with clarity. And if everyone who experienced the splendor of Gondolin departs from these shores, who will there be to remember it? Passing on stories whose details can change shape at any time is not enough; it _must_ be set in stone."

Idril raised an eyebrow. "And you do not fear that your words might be biased?"

Pengolodh's answer was immediate, and frankly rather damning. "Not at all."

This drew some snorts and titters from his audience (though Idril did not indulge in such a display), and Pengolodh's face grew very red as a result. Idril had read some of Pengolodh's drafts, and knew that he had a tendency to lionize some, while treating others with far less kindness than they deserved. And goodness knows he had also the tendency to cast Gondolin as though it was a city whose bliss was on par with _Valmar_ , something that Idril knew very well was not true. However, Idril looked at the sheepish smile now stealing over the historian's face, and was reassured by the fact that he at least seemed to be _aware_ of his biases.

Pengolodh cleared his throat and straightened his papers before going on. "What I mean, your Highness, is this. Our memories are not perfect, and there may come a time when for the past, there is no one _left_ to remember. So I ask our people to tell me their tales, their memories. I listen to their stories, and record them." His dark eyes shined as he went on, "I can not think of any story that I do not enjoy hearing. It is of utmost importance to listen to what they have to say."

Though Idril doubted he ever intended it like that, she found Pengolodh's words to be excellent advice for herself as a ruler.

" _I wish you would just listen to me!"_

" _I_ am _listening to you, Irissë," Turgon retorted, if in significantly gentler tones than what his sister used._

 _She shook her head sharply, furious color starting to rise in her cheeks. "No, you're not. You hear what I say, but your heart is never open. You hear what I say but you don't_ listen _, Turukáno. If you did, we wouldn't still be having this conversation!"_

" _I could say the same of you, Sister; when was the last time—" His voice trailed off, as he noticed Idril standing at the end of the hallway for the first time._

_Idril didn't know what had given her away. Her father and her aunt had seemed to believe themselves alone in the hallway while they argued, but suddenly they both spotted her, and whatever words they had died on their lips. Idril knew how hard they tried not to argue in front of her, even though she was a grown nís and there was theoretically no harm in it. Even so, the echoes of their words reverberated in her ears long after they had both fallen silent._

So Idril Celebrindal began to ask, to question, to listen, all things she had thought she was doing before, but realized that she really hadn't at all. If someone on Balar, Noldo or Sinda or otherwise, had an accent she couldn't place, she would ask them where they were from. She asked them what their home had been like, why they were here now. The story of why they were here was mostly the same—their homeland had fallen to Morgoth's advance, they could no longer live at home in safety—but there was always something a little different. They would share some feature that was unique to them—a memory of sunlight reflecting on pots and pans, the sound of water babbling in a creak, the whisper of wind through the branches of a tree that only whispered in that exact way for that exact tree. And now it was all gone.

It wasn't all doom and gloom and grief, of course, the things she learned. Idril learned the names of everyone who worked in the palace, for both the Noldorin court and the Sindarin one, from the highest of lords to the kitchen servants, and after much labor committed them to memory. She learned recipes and songs, and where both had come from. She learned styles of poetry that she had never known existed before, and she heard more childhood stories told by fond parents and giggling siblings than she could even remember. When she heard these stories, she would carry them back to Eärendil and Elwing, hoping that they would know _something_ of peace and safety, even if it only came down to them in stories.

But it still struck her how much had been lost. Idril had never thought very much about everything _she_ had lost. There were always more important things to do than mope; she didn't have _time_ to wallow in grief. Her losses formed an abyss at her feet, but she had no intention of jumping. All the same, she saw even more what Pengolodh meant about the value of recording history that could so easily be lost.

Just before her wedding, a jewel-smith in Gondolin named Enerdhil had given her a brooch with a clear green stone in it that he called the Elessar. When one looked through the stone, they saw the aged, the wearied, the marred as young and whole again. Enerdhil, still in mourning for a child five hundred years dead, told her that he had originally made it for himself, but had decided to give it to Idril instead.

Idril had never used it the way the smith had said she could. She had never given it to anyone else to use it in that fashion either, even if they had come to Sirion or Balar having lost everything they cared about. Idril knew the dangers of lingering in the past. She used the Elessar as a cloak clasp; she knew its value well enough not to simply put it away and forget it. Still…

"Enerdhil."

The smith looked up when Idril came to stand in the doorway of his home, blocking the light of the setting sun behind her. He gathered up his cane before standing and bowing (shallowly and awkwardly, and Idril forgave it for she knew that if he bowed any more deeply he was running the risk of falling over); Enerdhil had walked with a limp ever since being wounded at the Battle of the Lammoth, she knew that. He looked tired, but he often looked tired. "Lady Idril," he said quietly to her. "What brings you to my home?"

"I was wondering," she murmured, "why you made the Elessar."

His face creased in pain, and Idril held up a hand. "I know of your grief, Enerdhil. I know that you wished to remember. But I doubt that this jewel—" she rested her hand across the Elessar "—for all of its power, has the ability to conjure images of the dead. So why did you craft it? Why did you pour such power into it?"

Enerdhil frowned in contemplation, sitting back down in his chair. He rubbed at his forehead, keeping his other hand clasped firmly on the handle of his cane. Finally, he looked at her, and asked, "When I made it, I had hoped that it would do just what you had suggested. I had hoped that it would allow me to remember, without the veil of time over my eyes. In my place, would you have done differently?"

She had no words with which to answer him.

**VI.**

It was not always the easiest thing to bear, the idea that she was working to rehabilitate the position she now inhabited. It was even harder for Idril to parse the idea that she had to work to rehabilitate the position on account of the way her father had behaved when he was High King. Turgon had kept the gates of Gondolin shut to all but a very few, even as High King of the Noldor, and after the Bragollach, after the Nirnaeth, after the fall of Hithlum, Dorthonion, Himlad, Himring, Thargelion, and all of the other Noldorin realms, he had not opened his gates to his people. Even in the face of so much suffering, Gondolin remained shut up and unknown. Idril sometimes sensed resentment in the voices of those who spoke of Gondolin, but had never seen its splendor. She did not have to wonder if she was imagining the resentment in their voices as they spoke of her father.

She knew that if Turgon had ever laid eyes on the refugees, he would never have been able to turn his back on them. Idril knew her father. He could harden his heart under dire circumstances as most could, but only to a point. In the face of such suffering, being forced to look upon it with his own eyes, he would not have been able to turn them away.

Unfortunately, it had never come to that, and Turgon had been a good king to Gondolin, but a poor ruler to the Noldor at large. Though that had never been his intention (there were days when Idril honestly wondered if her father would have been happier, had he never been called on to rule), he had wronged the Noldor. Listening to the woes of the Noldor, offering redress when she could and sympathy when she could not, this was what Idril did to rectify that wrong. She hoped that the day would come when her people could see Turgon the way she did, and for now, she addressed the wrongs that had been done to them.

Sometimes, avenues were opened up that she would have preferred not to walk down.

There was a grizzled old soldier, a Noldo named Bainor with dark skin and a scarred, shaven head, who had but one eye. He lived in a tiny house near the palace; Idril saw him practically every time she ventured outside. Though she knew that there was a limit to what she could politely ask of others, eventually Idril's curiosity overcame her, and one day, she sat down beside him on his stoop and asked him how he had lost his right eye.

Bainor, as she discovered, had been a captain under both her grandfather and her uncle. He had fought in the Dagor Bragollach and was one of the few of Fingon's company to escape the destruction of the Nirnaeth. "That was where I lost my eye, your Highness. I was struck by an Orc while defending the King; he ordered that I be taken away from the battlefield, to safety." Grief stole over his face. "I lost far more than an eye that terrible day."

They spoke more, after that. At first, Idril asked Bainor about his family—a cousin who lived on Balar, a sister who had perished in the Nirnaeth (And Idril learned never to ask him about the Nirnaeth again, for the crushing grief that piled on his shoulders whenever he remembered the battle that had unmade his life). Then, she asked him to talk about Fingolfin, and Fingon.

She barely knew either of them. Turgon had moved away from Hithlum when Idril was still a little girl, and after that, she had few opportunities to interact either with her grandfather or her uncle. They were her kin, her close kin, but when she heard tell of the Kings of the Noldor, they did not feel like kin. They felt like legends given flesh. They were not Eldar. They were not her grandfather and her uncle. They were the distant High Kings of the Noldor, her predecessors, the ones whose reputations she struggled to live _up_ to rather than live _down_.

Bainor filled in gaps in her knowledge. He described the timbre of Fingon's laugh when he rode a horse and an argument he once overheard between Fingolfin and Lalwen relating to who would take some noble's newborn child on their first riding lesson, when the day came. (Idril had never imagined her grandfather and her elusive great-aunt doing something so mundane as _arguing_.) He told her of how Fingolfin looked when he was bent over his desk reading reports, how Fingon stared restively towards the east, as though waiting for a rider to come.

"You are like them, and yet not. I can not say how, exactly, your Highness. I can only say that your kinship to them shines through clearly, and yet you are very different from them."

Then, he asked the question.

"Your Highness, the tales of Gondolin's fall all speak of a secret passage below the city that you ordered built. The tales say also that without this passage, none would have escaped the city alive. I suppose it is a blessing that you knew to have this tunnel built, but how? The Gondolindrim all say that there was no warning before the city came under attack. How did you know to have this tunnel built, months in advance?"

"Intuition," was all Idril could say. She abruptly bid him good day, and left.

How could she have told Bainor the truth? How could she have told him that she had feared the second shadow that haunted her steps? How could she say that she feared him when he had power in Gondolin, and feared him even now when he was dead and powerless to harm her?

Idril did not think of Maeglin very often. Perhaps it would be more accurate to say that she tried not to think of him. With Maeglin's death Idril had escaped any danger he posed her, but she felt as though thinking of him would conjure up his shade, and he would be free to haunt her yet again. She remembered the poison of his words and felt as though if she thought of him, his very memory would poison her mind.

Would remembering Maeglin poison her recollections of Aredhel? Idril did not wish for that. She knew that the mother and the son were two different people, alike in some ways, but so different in others. Idril feared that, if she dwelled on her cousin for long enough, she would start remembering coldness in her aunt where it had never existed. People had already begun to connect Aredhel to Maeglin in more ways than was fair to her.

Would remembering Maeglin poison her recollections of her father? Idril did not wish for that, either. She knew that there were plenty who, if they ever learned of the position she had been in, would look askance at Turgon and wonder how he could have remained blind to what was happening in front of him. To that, all Idril could say was that Maeglin hadn't been that obvious, and why should Turgon have been _looking_ for malice in his nephew?

Idril pushed those thoughts out of her mind, as she ever did.

Later, she was looking over reports of missing grain allotments and fighting down a headache when Tuor entered the room Idril had claimed as her "study." Idril looked up and smiled when she saw him; the sight of Tuor would always be more welcome than reports suggesting theft. "How did the meeting with Haldar go?" she asked. A small band of Edain had recently made their way to Sirion; Tuor had been planning to meet with Haldar, their leader.

Tuor stared blankly at her. "That was today?" he asked, bewildered.

"Yes, Tuor, it was." Idril frowned at him. "This… it isn't the first time you've forgotten."

He shook his head, face coloring in embarrassment. "I know." He started to head out of the room. "I'm sorry, Idril; I've got to go find Haldar."

Idril stared at the shut door after he left. Tuor didn't usually forget things like that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * Idril belongs to a number of Noldor who are not impressed with the Valar at all, and considering what she went through (especially with my head canon that she was a little girl when Mandos pronounced Doom on her along with everyone else of her people), can you really blame her?
> 
> Artanis—Galadriel  
> Irissë—Aredhel  
> Turukáno—Turgon
> 
> Nís—woman (plural: nissi)  
> Vása—the Exilic name for the Sun, signifying 'The Consumer' (Quenya)  
> Endóre—Middle-Earth (Quenya)  
> Nér—man (plural: neri)  
> Calaquendi—'Elves of light'; the Elves of Aman, especially those who dwelled there in the days of the Trees (singular: Calaquendë) (Quenya)  
> Moriquendi—'Elves of darkness'; the Elves of Middle-Earth, those who never saw the light of the Two Trees (singular: Moriquendë) (Quenya)


	2. Part Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And once again, I had to split my chapters because what I was writing was so long, so this is Chapter 2 of _4_ instead of Chapter 2 of 3. I hope you guys enjoy the (much longer than originally planned) second installment of _Like Stars_ , even if a lot of it is just one huge conversation.

**VII.**

She had left Eärendil and Elwing sitting under an oak tree, holding a hushed conversation. Well, hushed by Eärendil's standards. The quiet tones employed were quite normal for Elwing; when she held court, as was more common these days, her petitioners often had to strain to hear her.

Idril also left Thranduil and Duileth as they caught up with Celeborn, the latter of whom was quite happy to share news with his cousin and his aunt. (Oropher had remained in Sirion, as he always did; from what Idril understood, he got seasick very easily.) Idril separated from those she had come to Balar with, and instead began to walk down a grassy "street" (the positioning of the tents had become much more organized over the years) with Galdor and Galadriel at her side.

"A few years ago, I never would have believed that the children of Ondolindë would be comfortable living in tents again," Galdor muttered. "We'd become perhaps a bit to accustomed to our comfort."

Galadriel stared incredulously at him, and even Galdor, weathered a soldier as he was, had to wilt a bit under that withering stare. "Do you call a roof over your head that's unlikely to blow away an excessive comfort?" she asked acidly, in Quenya, of course, just as Galdor had spoken. Galadriel was more than happy to follow her Queen's example in this, even if it meant violating Thingol's Ban—or perhaps especially because it meant violating Thingol's Ban. Idril suspected that it had been a very long time since Galadriel had been able to openly speak Quenya with _anyone_.

Galdor held up his hands. "I did not mean it like that, Lady Artanis. Believe me," he added, "I remember what life was like by Lake Mithrim— _and_ the Helcaraxë."

Idril smiled ruefully at him. "You think that we were too attached to our hiding place, do you, Galdor?" Before he could raise his voice in another hasty back-track, Idril said, "I agree with you, if so. Ondolindë was too close to the Enemy's stronghold to remain hidden forever." _Even if we had not been betrayed_. "We would have done better to remember that."

Idril did not understand how anyone, least of all herself, could ever have thought that Gondolin would endure forever. Once, once long ago, her father had known that Gondolin would not endure, but that was a truth that his heart forgot. No one else had learned that truth to begin with.

No matter how much its children had hoped against this, Gondolin had crumbled. It had crumbled, as all things must. But the children of Gondolin had survived, and perhaps some good could yet be derived from its crumbling.

**VIII.**

Idril was not sure what good could be found in the crumbling that took place before her very eyes now. On second thought, she could see no good in it at all.

_And why did I never see it before now?_

He was growing forgetful, her husband. No, it was more than that; Idril would have been happy if that was the worst of what had befallen Tuor. She knew plenty of her own people who were forgetful, who had trouble remembering certain little things. Erestor routinely got lost in the Havens, even though he had lived here for nearly fifteen years now. Egalmoth confessed that, sometimes, he awoke in the morning expecting to see the all-encompassing gentle light of Laurelin, rather than Vása's dimmer, harsher light. Eärendil sometimes forgot to lace his tunic all the way up, and Idril herself frequently mislaid quills.

But this was different. There was a pattern to Tuor's forgetfulness that left Idril dismayed, terrified, even.

There was the morning when, from afar, he mistook a fair-haired Elda for Glorfindel and asked Erestor to go fetch his father for him. (It had taken Idril nearly fifteen minutes to remind Tuor that Glorfindel and Ecthelion were dead, another ten to convince Erestor that this was not a mean-spirited prank being played on him. Erestor did not speak to Tuor for nearly a week afterwards.)

There was the afternoon when she found him wandering the halls and staring at his surroundings in wonder. When asked, Tuor said that he had grown up in rough-hewn caves, and he had never seen such splendor. Idril, feeling a sharp shoot of pain digging into her chest, asked him how the hastily built Havens compared with Gondolin, and he simply stared at her with an uncomprehending look on his face.

There was the day when he called her 'Princess' and not 'Idril.'

There was the night when he got lost on the way to bed and Idril drove herself nearly to distraction with worry until she found Nellas leading him back by the hand, practically radiating sadness the way Vása radiated light as she did so, and Elwing trailing after them both with an unreadable gleam in her silvery eyes.

There was the terrible moment when he did not remember his son's name.

Tuor was still Tuor. He was still kind-hearted, cheerful, easygoing. In his heart, he was unchanged, but in everything else, the more Idril watched, the less like himself Tuor seemed. When he lost days or months or years, it was like staring into a stranger's eyes.

The Eldar had no explanation for this. Even those who had lived among the Edain could not say what the cause was for his ailment.

The Eldar could not determine the cause of Tuor's ailment, but they certainly noticed it.

For the first time since the weeks following her wedding, when the fuss had died down, Idril began again to hear the whispers passed between the Noldor. _Well, what did she expect, marrying one of the Edain? They are the Second-born, the mortal, the frail. There's a reason Felagund counseled against such unions_.

It had been nice, being able to pretend that no one was unhappy with her marriage, that only Maeglin with all his malicious intentions for her could ever have found a reason to object to the marriage of Idril Celebrindal and Tuor. That was not the truth, however, and while there had been many who were happy for them both, there had been plenty who had simply swallowed on their disapproval until there came a more appropriate time to express it. To them, 'now' seemed to be the time. As Idril watched her husband slowly unravel, his memories coming undone like thread unraveling out of a scarf, she found she nearly hated them for it.

The most frequent complaint was that Idril Celebrindal had married 'beneath her station.' That reason always made Idril want to break into hysterical laughter; it certainly gave lie to the idea that any of the naysayers were really concerned about the philosophical implications of her marriage, didn't it? Her father told her that the Noldor had only begun to care about social status as regards to marriage partners upon coming to live in Beleriand. In Aman, the Vanyar might have cared, but the Noldor and the Falmari never did. And no one who knew Tuor ever thought him unworthy to wed with a daughter of the Eldar.

Now, they were starting to cast speculative looks at Eärendil as well. Whispering about the Peredhil, about how quickly he had grown to manhood. As much as Idril tried not to, she found herself looking at him in such a way. Wondering if, in just a few decades, she would lose him as well.

Idril had known, when she married Tuor, that he would grow old and die. She had known that when he died, his soul would flee beyond the circles of the world, while she was bound to this earth forever. Long had she pondered on this before accepting Tuor's suit. Idril had known that she had to be sure that she could live without him.

But this, and her son, too…

Not long afterwards, Idril paid a visit to an Edain healer.

The woman was small and gray with age, but her dark eyes were bright and her step lively. She called herself 'Inzil', a name Idril was sure was a pseudonym, though why the healer felt she needed a pseudonym was beyond Idril.

"It is a common affliction of old age, my Lady," Inzil said softly, sitting by the shuttered window of her tiny house. "The mind wanders; it forgets. The body remembers its age, but the mind does not. My mother—" there was a tightening in the old woman's jaw "—often believed herself to be a girl in Ladros once again, before the end."

Idril shook her head violently. "Do you really count a man in his fifties as old?" She knew that the Edain rarely lived beyond eighty years, but really…

Inzil's face grew troubled. "It is rare, but not unheard of. I… I have noticed that it is more common with those who received head wounds earlier in life. Do you think that this could have happened to Lord Tuor?"

"Possibly." Tuor rarely spoke of the time he spent as a thrall of the Easterlings, and they had all suffered so much during the Fall that their injuries bled together in Idril's mind, but she could not discount the possibility. "What can be done?"

The old woman leaned forward and patted Idril's hand. "There is nothing that I know of among the curatives of Ennor."

Idril swallowed and told herself that she had been prepared for this.

"But," Inzil went on, "it is said that there is healing to be found in the Undying Lands, for all ills."

Aman…

It seemed like a ridiculous idea at first. The Valar had Doomed the Noldor and Banned the Edain. No summons was ever issued to the Edain, bidding them to come away to the safety of Aman; the Valar clearly did not want them there. Tuor could never be accepted into the utter West, and neither would the Noldorin crew (it _had_ to be Noldorin; Idril would accept no others) that sought to bear him there.

But where there was love, there was hope. Idril had accepted that she would lose her husband to death, but she had never accepted or even conceived of the possibility that she would have to watch him come undone first. She had anticipated tottering steps, but never that he would believe himself a child sure to be scolded by his foster-father if he didn't find his way home soon. Perhaps the favor that Tuor said Ulmo bore him would be enough. Enough for the Valar to grant him the healing of Aman, even if he fell under the Edain's Ban.

In that case, it seemed that Idril had a decision to make.

**IX.**

The journey by ship to Balar had never seemed a long one before, but this time, it felt to Idril as though it was dragging on forever. The sky was a clear blue, the seas were calm, the wind was favorable, and Idril could not enjoy any of it. She stood on the deck, staring at the island as it grew ever larger, her heart in her mouth.

She heard a small sigh from the ships only other passenger. The wind buffeted Duileth's unbound silver hair back and forth; any attempt to keep it looking neat had long since been abandoned. "You look fit to turn into a statue," Duileth remarked.

Idril knew that she was trying to lighten the mood, and appreciated it, but could think of nothing to say. She felt as though she would scream if she tried to speak.

Duileth came to stand beside her. Though the Iathrim lady was only a few inches taller than Idril, she felt dwarfed by her. Duileth had not been born at Cuiviénen, had not been born until after her father parted company with Olwë to search for Thingol in the wilderness. All the same, she seemed to breathe history. It was her experience Idril wanted. That, and Galadriel's wisdom. For that, she needed to go to Balar.

Idril and Duileth found Galadriel among the houses of the wounded, helping the healers tend to a new batch of refugees. Her Queen she greeted with a nod of the head and a reserved "Hello." At the sight of Duileth, she raised an eyebrow and drew herself up to her full height. "Well, what are you doing here?" she asked, not exactly rudely, but inquisitively and without the warm tones one would expect when greeting a kinswoman.

_But then, when has Artanis ever greeted someone in the 'warm tones' they expected? I think she must live to betray others' expectations._

Duileth folded her arms across her chest and riposted, "Do I need a reason to visit my young cousin?"

Galadriel stared at her long and hard. "…Yes," she said slowly.

"Oh, what a mean thing you are!"

In another mood, Idril might have noticed that the two of them seemed to be deriving enjoyment out of this. Perhaps she did notice it, if only subconsciously, for all that she did not attempt to smooth over whatever hostility there might have been if this was not the two of them play-acting at disliking each other. Instead, she cleared her throat. "Actually, Galadriel—" she spoke Sindarin for Duileth's sake, as the lady did not speak Quenya and was determined never to learn "—I brought Duileth here. I was hoping to speak with you both."

"Then you have two choices," Galadriel said briskly. "Either you can come inside and help me make the work go by more quickly, or you can wait outside until I am finished."

"I think I will stay outside, Galadriel," Duileth demurred. "I've never been good with wounds."

"Better with inflicting them," Galadriel murmured, and Duileth grinned wolfishly in response. "And you, Idril?"

Idril shook her head. "I'll wait as well, cousin. I—How are they?" she asked anxiously, peering inside the house. "Where did they come from?" There was something about privation, Idril noticed, that had a way of stripping all cultural markers from a person's speech and bearing. She caught glimpses of these newcomers, all five belonging to her people, but could not guess what kindred they belonged to.

Galadriel glanced back into the house, brow furrowed. "Mithrim Sindar," she said. "They could not risk staying in their ancestral homes any longer." She lowered her voice. "They were lucky. Of those who weren't killed, most escaped injury. It's only these five—and even then, the healers believe they will live."

(Galadriel was not actually a healer. She knew much about the inner workings of the body, knew much about wounds and how to treat them. As such, she often lent her assistance to the Eldarin healers living on Balar, but she was not a healer herself. It had surprised Idril, when first she discovered this. She still had the image of Galadriel in her head that she had had as a little girl—possibly omniscient, possibly omnipotent. When she realized that Galadriel was neither of these things, she felt something very much like _loss_.)

"I must return to my work," Idril heard Galadriel say, as if from far away.

Idril nodded absently. Duileth cast a speculative glance her way, and called out, "Don't take too long, Galadriel—I'd like to know why I was dragged all the way out here."

It was another half-hour or so before the healers no longer required Galadriel's aid. Idril spent the time looking over the "streets" and the tens that moulded them. Every time she came here, the conditions seemed a little better. She knew that part of this was due to her, or perhaps more accurately due to the fresh influx of labor from Gondolin. Perhaps the rest was simply owed to things settling down over the years. Just because they were vulnerable to the Enemy did not mean that they had to live under a cloud of constant fear.

 _No, it just means that_ I _have to worry, about so many things._

She needed to check in with Galdor, and with Guilin, the leader of the Nargothrond Exiles—Guilin had just return from another few years spent in the wild, searching; for what, no one could say. She also probably needed to arrange a meeting with Círdan, even if only to bring him up to speed with what was happening in Sirion. Círdan had asked for someone to keep him informed, after all; he especially liked to hear about Eärendil's progress. There were a thousand little things she needed to do, the pile never growing any smaller, and… And she needed to decide.

When Galadriel emerged, she beckoned Idril and Duileth to follow her to the tent she shared with Celeborn. Celeborn himself was not there ("At the western tip of the island again," Galadriel explained; "He's been helping Círdan with the ship-building."), and Galadriel bid her guests to sit down anywhere they could find room. She began taking her hair out of the braid it had been bound in. Well, more precisely, she took what little hair was _left_ in the braid out of it. Galadriel's hair was the fine, slippery sort that rarely ever stayed braided for long.

Almost in spite of herself, Idril catalogued her surroundings with interest (Perhaps just another welcome distraction). She had never been in Galadriel's tent before; they had always met outside, beneath the empty sky or the trees present at the west of the island. It was clear that neither Galadriel nor her husband had seen the need to move their home in years, for all the grass was gone, leaving them with a smooth dirt floor. Of more interest was the furnishings.

The last time Idril had lived in a tent, she had not lived in the sort of comfort she saw here. There had been no table, no chairs. There certainly hadn't been a _bed_ , not one piled with quilts and blankets and even a fur pelt for cold weather. Who cared if the "mattress" was just canvas pulled taut about the frame? It was a _bed_. The only thing this tent's furnishings had in common with the last one she had lived in was the chest, probably being used to store clothes.

Idril sat down in one of the chairs, and Galadriel in the other, leaving Duileth to sit perched atop the chest. The latter two looked to Idril for her to start the conversation, but when she did not speak, Duileth seemed to decide that the silence needed to be filled. She sighed gustily, and leaned back on the chest, putting her weight on her arms. "Did you hear, Galadriel? Queen Elwing and Idril's son—" here she nodded to Idril "—will wed in a few months' time."

"Oh?" Galadriel turned her piercing gaze on Idril. "When was the betrothal announced?" _Why was I not informed_? was the question that was not asked, but could be heard anyways.

"Very recently," Idril answered. If that seemed curt, she did not care. It was just another thing she had missed. Another thing that complicated the decision she had to make.

"Yes, it was very sudden," Duileth supplied. She smirked. "The court tried to raise objections, but our young Queen handled herself very well. I was quite impressed."

Galadriel snorted. "And with you whispering in her ear at every turn, I have no doubt."

"Once again, you wound me with your suspicions. Quiet and young she may be, but as far as stubbornness goes, Elwing has truly proven herself Thingol's scion."

Galadriel frowned at Duileth as though she was not sure that that was a good thing, but did not say anything to that effect; doing so probably would have started a _real_ fight. "I doubt—" Suddenly, she was addressing Idril instead of Duileth "—that you came here simply to discuss such things, Idril. You certainly would not have brought Duileth with you if you simply wished to exchange minutiae."

_I hardly categorize my son's wedding as 'minutia.'_

"What was it you wished to discuss?" Galadriel asked quietly, staring intently into Idril's face.

There was no avoiding it anymore. Trust Galadriel to be the one who wanted to cut to the chase. Idril drew a deep breath and nodded choppily. "I… You are both aware of the "ailment" that has befallen my husband? And our proposed solution?" It had not taken much to convince Tuor that journeying to Aman would give him what he needed. He was aware that there was something wrong with him, and Tuor was perhaps the only human with sea-longing that Idril had ever met; no matter where he thought himself, that sea-longing was constant. Living in Sirion, Duileth knew of all of this. But did Galadriel?

Somehow, Idril was not surprised when Galadriel nodded, not at all thrown by this information. "Yes, I have. You have my sympathy." Her gaze was no less piercing now, no less questioning. She knew this wasn't the end of it, and once again, Idril wasn't surprised.

"I… I have been wondering about whether or not I should go with him."

Duileth grimaced. "I had a feeling it had something to do with this." She sat up straight and her demeanor became more business-like. "Well, what do you want? Do you want us to give you advice on whether you should leave Ennor, or do you just want us to tell you all the reasons why you _can't_ leave?"

Idril stared helplessly at them. She felt her hands shake, just a little bit. "…Both, actually."

Galadriel's brow furrowed. Duileth sighed and muttered, "Such joyous words. Alright." Her dark eyes gleamed as she pressed her fingertips against her chest. "You will recall that Oropher left Sirion a few months ago, with a few hundred Sindar at his back. All with Queen Elwing's blessing, of course," Duileth added hastily, glancing at Galadriel with her eyebrows raised. Idril thought, but did not say, that Elwing had not seemed to care one way or another if any of her people stayed at her side or not at all. Idril did not know what to do to pierce Elwing's sadness, or her listless apathy. Only Eärendil seemed capable of that these days. "And yet I remained here, in spite of my husband wishing for me to join him. Did you ever wonder why?"

Idril crossed her arms around her chest. "Because the House of Elmo never forsakes its kin?" she offered, quoting that favorite phrase of Duileth's. "I assume that's why Thranduil elected to stay as well."

Duileth's expression was that of one who knew she had just been singled out for repeating herself. Her smile was somehow just as much a grimace as it was a smile. "Yes, but that's not all of it, Idril. Oropher is taking the Edhil under his authority east. Where no one can say, except that he does not intend to stop at the Ered Luin. Whether or not he even reached those mountains, I can not say." A shadow passed over her face. "But I am needed here, and I have learned that you do no one any good by blindly following others. Trust me," she added dryly, "if Belwen was still with us, she would have many tales to tell you about the dangers of following others blindly."

"Belwen?" Idril asked, confused.

"Celeborn's mother," Galadriel muttered in reply. Idril wondered what it meant, that Galadriel was letting Duileth take the reins of the conversation like this.

"And that leads me to my next topic," Duileth said brightly. "Take Galadriel." She waved her hand in Galadriel's direction, and Idril was startled, just a little bit, to see Galadriel tense. "Or, more accurately, take my nephew.

"When our people fled here after the Kinslayers' attack, it was decided that Galadriel would be refused entry into Sirion. As a result, she came to live here instead. Celeborn was _not_ barred entry and would have been welcome in the Havens, but he refused to set foot in any place that denied his wife." Duileth smiled. "He really is a sweet boy. Anyhow, Celeborn refuses to go anywhere that Galadriel can not, even when that means choosing the harder road."

Beside Idril, Galadriel nodded and said nothing. However, something about Duileth's account sparked in Idril curiosity at something that had never made sense to her. She looked to her cousin. "Galadriel, I don't know if you've ever told me why you were barred from Sirion."

Galadriel stiffened, and Duileth grinned mirthlessly. "Yes, Galadriel, why _don't_ you tell her why you weren't permitted entry into the Havens?"

There was none of the teasing quality that had taken the edge off of her words before. The two nissi stared at one another, Galadriel deliberately expressionless, Duileth's grin replaced by something much sharper. The air felt as charged as it would have if lightning had just struck. Idril could hear the wind whistling outside of the tent, watched as it battered on the canvas. She did not know what there was between the two nissi to make them behave this way, but she had no desire to see any more of it.

"I think," Idril said, quietly but firmly, "that this topic can wait until another day."

Still staring at Duileth, Galadriel nodded. "Yes. Another day." There was no mistaking the coolness in her voice. She turned her gaze to Idril. "I have a few questions for you, Idril. First and foremost is this. What decision have you made concerning your mortality?"

They were both looking at her very seriously; Galadriel's expression held concern. Herself, Idril was just bewildered. "I… I don't follow."

Duileth frowned at her. "When Lúthien chose to bind her fate to Beren's, she was given a choice between the immortality of the Edhil and the mortality of the Edain. More specifically, she was given a choice concerning the fate of her _soul_ , to remain bound to the earth or to go beyond the circles of the world. Which did you choose?"

"I… I was not aware that there was a choice. I was certainly never given one. I remain bound to this world, I assure you." _And I would not have chosen mortality, even if I had been given the option. No one can ever ask me to make the choice of Lúthien. Not that._

At this, Galadriel and Duileth looked at one another long and hard. "Lúthien… never explained it very well, the circumstances in which she made her choice," Duileth explained reluctantly. "It was Thingol who questioned her, and Lúthien was not on good terms with her father by this point in time; I don't think she told him all of it. She told us _some_ of what happened, and frankly, I don't believe a word of it. _She_ —" Duileth pointed at Galadriel "—especially didn't believe a word of it."

Ignoring Duileth's jab (what there was of it), Galadriel added, "We had believed that any Elda who married one of the Edain would be given the same choice as what Lúthien received, but it does not seem so. Whether or not you had chosen mortality, had you been given the choice, I think that would have changed a great deal regarding the decision you're considering now. It would also change a great deal concerning your son."

"Eärendil?" Idril asked sharply. "What about him?"

"We are fairly certain that Dior was mortal," Galadriel told her. Gently. That alone was enough to make Idril's heart pound. "Both of his parents were mortal at the time of his birth, after all. There was some opposition when Thingol named Dior his heir—" _Why does that sound so familiar?_ "—but Thingol refused to believe that his grandson could be mortal. Even when there was one very clear sign that Dior was mortal."

"He grew to manhood as quickly as any child of the Edain," Duileth interjected, gazing grimly at Idril. "As quickly as Túrin did during the years of his fosterage in Menegroth. Dior's children were—or are, in the case of Elwing—not mortal, owing to my grand-niece's blood. Neither is Eärendil, thanks to yours. Or so we suppose. Who knows how long the Peredhil truly live?"

Idril imagined Eärendil as old and gray. She imagined her young son, who had indeed grown to manhood far more quickly than any child of the Eldar, especially one of Beleriand under Vása and Rána, as his steps grew uncertain and his face grew lined. Perhaps his mind would unravel as his father's had. Perhaps he would grow so feeble that he would become unable to rise from his bed.

When would it happen? In fifty years, a hundred, a thousand? Even if it happened the day before the breaking of the world, that would still be too soon. It would still be too harrowing a separation to bear. She had prepared herself to lose Tuor. No one had ever asked her to harden her heart against the idea of losing Eärendil. Especially not while she remained the same, just as she was now, while it happened.

Perhaps it would never happen. Perhaps the Peredhil possessed immortality by virtue of their Eldarin parents' blood. But the possibility was enough to chill her, and it did not make the decision she needed to make any easier.

"Do you think Eärendil would consent to leave Beleriand?" Galadriel seemed to sense the direction of Idril's thoughts.

She shook her head. "No, of course not. Especially not now that he and Elwing are set to wed." Elwing would never forsake Beleriand, though whether that was due to her sense of loyalty to the Sindar or to her sheer stubbornness, Idril could not say. Elwing could not be persuaded to leave, and Eärendil, much like Celeborn, could not be persuaded to leave _her_. He went on voyages, certainly, but never would he be persuaded to leave her forever.

"And do the Noldor accept Eärendil as your heir?"

"…No."

It was difficult to admit, difficult to accept, but there it was. There were a number of reasons why the Noldor, even Egalmoth, Galdor and Raumolírë, did not accept Eärendil as Idril's heir. One was his age. Eärendil might have been grown in body, able to reason like an adult ( _and marry like one_ ), but he was still a child in the eyes of the Eldar, and one of the few things the Noldor agreed upon as regards to succession laws was that a child should never be made to rule. Part of it was that, indeed, no one knew how long Eärendil would live. And part of it was due to the fact that Eärendil would marry Elwing in just a few months. There were questions of how the inheritance between any possible children of theirs would be apportioned. There were even those who whispered that the Noldor would be absorbed into the Sindar's sphere of influence, though those who said this never did so to Idril's face.

"Is Tuor absolutely vital to the running of your government? Is he vital as a co-ruler?"

"…No."

In truth, Tuor was not Idril's co-ruler at all. She had found early on that the Noldor were happier when she did not appear to be "unduly influenced" by her Adan husband. Part of Idril had wished to treat Tuor as an equal, but the other half had bowed to convenience, and, yes, her desire to _lead_. Not rule, mind you, but _lead_ , even if the most Idril could do as a leader was delegate and give aid from afar. As such, she treated him much as she treated any of her nobles—an advisor, a friend, a subordinate, but _not_ a co-ruler.

Once Tuor's decline had begun, once he had noticed that there was something wrong with him, it had been simple enough of a task to divide his responsibilities among others. A Noldo from Dorthonion who had had many dealings wit the Bëorians in Ladros became Idril's new liaison to the Edain. The Edain trusted him, as they had trusted Tuor. It… It hurt, to treat Tuor as though he could be of no use, to divide his responsibilities like grieving kin dividing the belongings of the dead amongst themselves. But it had to be done.

"What do you think would become of the High Kingship, if you were to leave?" Galadriel's tone was so clinical that Idril could almost imagine that Galadriel had not once wanted that position for herself. That she did not still want it, on some level.

Idril opened her mouth to answer, but Duileth cut in before she could. "Yes…" Her eyes were gleaming again, a gleam that, over the years, Idril had learned to be wary of. "…Have you thought about it? If you have, I should hope you thought about it very hard. If you haven't, I think you should. _At length_."

Idril stared at her, perhaps a little cautiously, but telling herself that whatever Duileth was getting at, she needed to hear it. "What do you mean?"

Duileth leaned back on the chest again, eyes narrowing. "Idril, I am more than aware of the "work" you have had to do to… _improve_ the Noldor's opinion of your position. I've watched you labor far more over trivialities than it is likely your predecessors ever did, and pay more visits to the parts of the city so run-down that, once again, your predecessors would not have dreamed of setting foot in. Especially not _bare_ feet," Duileth added, nodding down at Idril's perpetually bare feet. "And I have some idea of why you're doing it. Is it to convince your people that you care about them, perhaps? That you are willing to be a responsible Queen? That you will not abandon them, the way your predecessors did?"

In the midst of everything else, Idril couldn't help but notice her use of the plural there.

"Oh, yes." Duileth's tone was much gentler now. It wasn't alarming, the way it would have been if it had been coming from Galadriel, just… unexpected. "It wasn't just your father, though he had a lot to do with it. I've lived among your people, listened to them talk long enough to know that it wasn't Turgon alone who was responsible for the mess you've been cleaning up.

"Just what is it with the Noldor and suicidally reckless duels?" Duileth asked abruptly, making both of her companions stare at her. When she saw their uncomprehending expressions, she clarified, "More specifically, what is it with Noldorin kings and suicidally reckless duels?"

Idril had some idea of where Duileth was going with this. She wouldn't be the first to point out the pattern, though those who did rarely did so in the sort of mocking tone that Duileth employed now. Frankly, the awed tone they tended to use instead grated on Idril as well, though not nearly as the mockery. Idril glanced over at her cousin and saw that Galadriel didn't look any more eager to listen to Duileth than she felt. Frankly, Galadriel looked like she had just swallowed down on something very bitter; her mouth was set in so thin a line that Idril could barely even see her lips.

However, Duileth either didn't notice the way the two Noldor were looking at her, or simply did not care. "First, there's Finwë. The two Trees the Amanyar are so dependent upon have been killed and the Undying Lands have been plunged into darkness, albeit the sort of darkness we on the other side of the sea were _very_ used to dealing with."

"Duileth, does the word 'Unlight' hold any meaning for you?" Galadriel muttered. "Even the stars were hidden for a time. Think about what that meant for us."

Duileth did not seem to hear. "Darkness had come upon the Undying Lands and the Noldor needed their king more than ever—not that he had actually dwelled in his capital for the past few years, that is. Instead of returning to Tirion, re-assuming the throne, and assuring his people that he would be there to guide them through that troubled time, he chose to enter into a duel with the Enemy when he appeared on the steps of his house. Predictably, he died, leaving his two oldest sons to resume their feud over the throne.

"Fëanor chose to do battle with Balrogs instead of retreating when he saw them. Let me repeat that. He chose to do battle with _Balrogs_. Not _one Balrog,_ but _several Balrogs_. We all know what happened next.

"The next was Maedhros. He had the singular stupidity to assume that, if the Enemy was going to ambush the "embassy" the two of them had planned, he would actually be able to _match_ the Enemy's strength. True enough that he didn't die—even when he has deserved to die more than others—but it still cost him his hand. And you know, until I saw him I had always thought it was his left hand he lost; I had never thought it was his right." Duileth blinked and shook her head to clear the cobwebs away. "Anyways…

"Then there was Maglor. The odd one of this lot, the only true pragmatist among the Noldorin kings—or at the very least, one who seemed to take a dim view on reckless behavior. At Maedhros's behest, he relinquished the crown to Fingolfin, the only transfer of authority between the Noldorin kings that didn't involve someone dying first.

"Fingolfin… Fingolfin seemed determined to die the same way his father did, and he got his wish, didn't he? Once again, who in their right mind challenges the Enemy to _single combat_?

"Fingon decided he would die the same way his uncle did. Truth be told, I think he is to be a little more excused than the others; he may have ridden into battle, but he did not deliberately seek out that Balrog, or so I am made to understand. Still, why on Earth would anyone engage in battle with a Balrog instead of retreating?

"Idril, I think that the only reason your father is singled out is because instead of dying in some act of incredibly reckless heroics, he chose to sit in his tower as the stones came crashing down around his head. I—Oh, _what_ , Galadriel?"

For the first time, Duileth seemed to realize how the other two were looking at her. Or at least, she seemed to realize how Galadriel was looking at her. Idril saw her cousin's hands clenched upon her knees, saw her stiff back, saw the positively withering glare she had fixed on Duileth. She wondered how Duileth could sit under that glare and not squirm.

"Nothing clever to say about my brothers?" Galadriel asked tightly.

Duileth stared at her for a long moment with her eyes narrowed, uncomprehending. Then, the moment of realization came, and she winced and shook her head. "No, Galadriel, nothing." She sighed. "And you, Idril?"

Idril would have liked to say something very sarcastic. Sarcasm was not something she had acquired naturally, you know. None of the family she had been allowed to see in her formative years had used it regularly, at least not in front of her. She had picked up sarcasm as a young adult from Salgant, and had later passed it on to Raumolírë and Curulírë, with varying results.

She had learned sarcasm and continued using it until one day Rog took her aside. For all of his reputation as a berserker, he was not without wisdom. He told her that those who used sarcasm did not earn the respect of their comrades, only their resentment; sarcasm was a cutting blade that should only be used sparingly. He asked her to _think._

" _You are not a cruel child, Princess. You are not cruel, but you must think of what you incite when you speak in such a way."_

She missed him. Idril found that she missed him often.

And Idril did think. More to the point, she looked at Salgant, listened, sometimes, to her father's council sessions. Indeed, Salgant was not well-respected in the King's Council. The others tended to talk over him and, when Idril found a hiding place from where she could _watch_ as well as listen, she noticed that some grimaced when he did so much as open his mouth. Glorfindel flinched, sometimes.

So Idril rarely used sarcasm anymore. She saw even more of a need _not_ to use it when she became the leader of her people. How cruel was it, to use verbal barbs and jibes against those who had no hope of matching you without risking offending you? And frankly, Idril took Rog at his word and heeded the power of sarcasm to _alienate_ others, just as much as hurt them.

"Duileth, if you have a point, I would like you to make it," she said instead. And her voice was only a little sharp.

The Iathrim lady looked at her with an expression that was one part serious, one part lecturing, and one part sympathetic. "Idril, I will tell you that the reason your father is singled out instead of the others is because, indeed, he did not die in some reckless act of what your historians like to call "heroism." I will tell you that your people tend to lionize such acts, and your historians are the worst of the lot in that regard.

"But that does not change the fact that the Noldor feel that their kings abandoned them, over and over again. Fingolfin went out of his way to challenge the Enemy when he could have returned to his people. He was supposed to have been the mightiest of kings, reigning the longest of all of them in Beleriand. And yet he still did that. Fingon chose to fight the Balrog instead of trying to fall back. In public, only your father's deeds are scrutinized and found wanting. But the Noldor still feel _abandoned_.

"That is what you have labored against, is it not? Their notion that you will vanish the way the others did, either beyond life or beyond guarded walls in secret places. You said that you both wanted us to give you advice on whether to stay here or leave with Tuor, and tell you all the reasons you can not leave. Well, this is it. I have been watching, I have been listening, and I do not know what will happen to your people, to your kingship, if you leave."

"In truth, nothing could happen," Galadriel broke in. "They might accept that you simply did not wish to be parted from your husband. So many have lost…" She frowned and looked away. "So many have lost loved ones," she said quietly. "They might respect that you did not wish to feel that pain anymore."

Idril remembered the sound of weeping. She remembered Raumolírë and Curulírë sobbing and hugging each other in the light of the burning city that was their parents' funeral pyre. Rog's son standing trembling under that light and struggling not to scream, before they lost him the way they lost Glorfindel. Remembered Eärendil crying bitterly when he was told that Ecthelion was dead, his sobs only redoubling when he asked for his grandfather and was told that he was gone as well.

Remembered herself, weary and footsore and shaking the same way as so many others were, but could not weep, not yet. She remembered that she had led her ruined people until they were safe, and then, in the anonymity of the dark, she laid down on cold, dewy grass and lifted her voice up with the others to wail, so that they would not know it was her.

Tuor had found her like that, had said nothing—he only stroked her hair gently until she was able to sit up again and try to breathe without sobbing. He had never judged her, from the very start. Maybe he was the only one who had never judged her.

_Perhaps they would understand, why I was leaving. Or perhaps my departure would only deepen their sense of betrayal, their sorrow._

It was as though she had spoken the words aloud. Duileth was nodding, was leaning forwards to put a hand on her shoulder. Galadriel was looking at her with an expression of understanding trying to hide itself behind cool calmness. None of them were the only ones here who had lost much.

Duileth's brow drew up as she spoke once more. "Idril, I say this because I do not wish to see you fail. Whatever you may think of me, I have never wished to see anyone fail at what they set themselves to achieve. The Kinslayers are the Kinslayers, but I bear no ill will against your people, and none against you. I do not want to see you fail."

After a long moment, Idril found that she believed her. In all the years that she had known Duileth, she learned that Duileth could be sharp, could be bitter, could be catty, could be mocking. But never had she known her to be cruel, not intentionally. They moved in different spheres, the two of them, but Duileth had never treated Idril with anything less than respect. Idril could look at Duileth, and believe that she did not wish to see her fail.

"And I have one last question for you, Idril," Galadriel said softly. "And you may think it cruel, but it must be addressed. Your mother followed your father wherever he might go, even when she did not wish to. Elenwë followed Turgon out of Aman when she wanted nothing but to stay behind. Do you think she was happy with that decision?"

The time came for Tuor to leave. It seemed to come by too slowly, and yet too quickly; when the morning dawned, Idril felt as though she was trying to grasp at smoke. But it was futile to grasp at smoke, so she stopped trying.

Eärendil embraced his father, but afterwards stood back, away from the ship. His head was bowed, his shoulders shaking; Idril did not think that he wished for anyone to see him weeping. Elwing stood at Eärendil's side, saying nothing, outwardly showing no sign of emotion at Tuor's leaving. She seemed smaller under the dawn light, more fragile than ever.

Idril smiled and leaned up to kiss her husband's cheek. She pinned the Elessar to his tunic, and asked him not to forget her.

He said that he would not, and she told herself to believe it.

As she watched Eärrámë leave Sirion, watched the ship's white sails become like specks against the blue horizon, Idril felt one burden lift from her shoulders, and another settle down in its place.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ondolindë—Gondolin  
> Falmari—those among the Teleri who completed the journey to Aman; the name is derived from the Quenya falma, '[crested] wave.'  
> Ennor—Middle-Earth (Sindarin)  
> Edhil—Elves (singular: Edhel) (Sindarin)  
> Ered Luin—the Blue Mountains, the mountain range that makes up the border between Beleriand and Eriador (Sindarin)  
> Peredhil—Half-Elves (singular: Peredhel) (Sindarin)  
> Rána—the Exilic name for the Moon, signifying ‘The Wanderer’ (Sindarin)  
> Amanyar—Elves of Aman  
> Eärrámë—the ship that bore Tuor (and, in canon, Idril) to Valinor


	3. Part Three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Every day for about the past week now, I’ve been going “Okay, I’m gonna finish Chapter 3 today, I just know it”, and now, I’ve finally done it. Just one chapter left!
> 
> [Content Note/Trigger Warning: Discussion of rape (and the victim-blaming attitudes of a society, thereof)]

**X.**

When Tuor, son of Huor and Rían, fosterling of the Mithrim Sindar, departed Endóre, those who knew her could not help but notice a change in Idril Celebrindal, High Queen of the Noldor.

There could be no complaint found in the way she dealt with her people, nor with the Sindar. She remained courteous—there were those who found Idril _more_ courteous now than they had before, more patient, more level-headed. The touch of grave seriousness on her demeanor where before there had been seriousness aping at constant good cheer could hardly be missed.

Perhaps they thought her more queenly, now. Not simply a former princess of Gondolin, but a proper Queen.

Idril noticed that, and she noticed the look of pity on Egalmoth's face. The way Duileth would brush against her, shoulder to shoulder, when they passed one another in the hall. Raumolírë deferred to her wisdom in council sessions more often than she used to; Curulírë dipped her head more deeply when the sessions ended and they spilled out into the hall. Her petitioners smiled less when they stood before her, but at the same time, spoke more openly and honestly about their purpose for coming before her; Idril noticed that not all of these petitioners were Noldor or Edain, either. Pengolodh phrased his questions more carefully when they met for interviews, and did not take up as much of her time when she made it clear that she did not have much to begin with. Elwing was slightly less inclined to ask for her advice than she had been when she was a little girl and queen of her people in name only. Eärendil was pulling away from her, spending even more of his time with Elwing or down at the quays.

Mostly, Idril felt very… alone. She had known that sort of loneliness in her life, the situations when she should not have felt alone, should not have felt lonely, but did anyways.

She had felt thoroughly alone when she lost her mother on the Helcaraxë. Really, she should not have, in that time of darkness, when Turgon, Aredhel and everyone else in her family and her father's following closed rank around her. She was the only grandchild, the only niece, the littlest member of their family (Celebrimbor did not count, as he was not on the Helcaraxë with them); to Turgon's followers, she was their lord's only child. She was universally adored, doted upon by each in their own ways. She should not have felt alone, and yet she did. The only thing that could have alleviated that loneliness was her mother's presence.

She had felt it in Vinyamar. This was the first of the cities her father built, to be modeled after Tirion upon Túna, that which they would never have gain. Turgon wanted what he could not have; it was an affliction felt by many (not least by Idril's petitioners), but when it was felt by a then-Prince of the Noldor, there were many who were made to feel the same way. Idril did not remember Tirion very well, but the idea that her new home was just a pale copy of splendor did not leave her with a good feeling about the sort of life she lived. She spent her days combating intermittent bouts of vague, nameless sadness.

Her playmates were all Mithrim Sindar or children of the Exile, and were aching for Mithrim, even if it meant going back to living in their shabby tents, fearing what dwelled in the dark. She was cared for by Aredhel, who grappled with her own loneliness and her frustration at her curtailed freedom. Long did Idril sit with her aunt as she stared out past the walls of Vinyamar, into that which duty and propriety more often than not forbade her to explore. Sometimes, she wondered if she was part of the reason Aredhel was bound to the city. Sometimes, guilt took the place of sadness, but it was not nearly so vague.

She felt it in Gondolin, and in Gondolin was Idril's loneliness at its most intense. Before, in Vinyamar, Idril had known the distance between herself and her kin (barring her father and aunt) to be great, but in Gondolin she felt as though all of creation stood between her and them. They had come to be on opposite ends of the Ainulindalë, and only Idril knew to desperately stretch her hand across the cosmos towards them. In a place that she could not leave, cut off from the rest of the world, her sense of isolation was great. The boundaries of the world had been clearly defined. It stopped at the Echoriath. Her world was too small, and yet it felt like there weren't nearly enough people in it with her.

Somehow, social boundaries had also become far more clearly defined than they had ever been before. Idril lost friends to their common status, barely ever seeing them anymore—only those who had been people of consequence or related to such remained. When she tried to visit them, her behavior was deemed inappropriate and a poor reflection on her father.

Aredhel was someone in whom she could confide, but with each passing year, Idril lost her aunt, more and more, to her own frustration. Pengolodh always wrote about Aredhel with ambivalence that bordered on disrespect, but he was far from wrong when he called her "restless." She saw the boundaries of her world defined and limited to that which was cradled in the mountains. Her world was too small.

Aredhel had few friends to start with, though she was close to those whom she had befriended; Egalmoth, Glorfindel and Ecthelion were among that number, which Idril suspected was why Turgon had sent them off with Aredhel when she left Gondolin, so that she would at least be among friends. She was very much alone in the city, alone in her own mind, and with that loneliness saw before her all the dreams she had had that had been betrayed by the simple fact that in Beleriand, for her, nothing had changed from her days in Aman. Aredhel saw before her the prospect of a life behind walls, stretching on and on into infinity with no relief, and it terrified her. She never said as much to Idril, tried to shield her from that fear, but Idril could sense it still.

Aredhel had been to Idril aunt, sister, mother, stumbling through all of these roles but making up for it with love. Aredhel, who had been all of these things to Idril, left Gondolin, and was lost. Turgon sat in stony, self-recriminating grief, and Idril nursed all of her fears and terrifying questions in silence. She was too busy trying to comfort her father to ever ask them.

Then, Aredhel returned. Idril felt so much hope to see her return, even if she carried with her strange tales and a strange son, even if the change in her was obvious and worrying.

Then, she was killed, and Idril was left with extinguished hope and a new fear in the form of the cousin who haunted her steps and looked at her with such dark, hungry eyes. How was Idril ever to give name to her fear, ever to share it with another? The concept of 'rape' was one that her people barely grasped. The Noldor knew that it existed, but they also knew that true victims _always_ chose death rather than being bound to their attacker until the breaking of the world. If one did not choose death in such a situation, then they were not truly a victim. They were not truly innocent.

How could she have ever told her father? It was such an absurd claim; surely she was just seeing shadows where there were none, or so he would think. What reason would Turgon have to believe her? Maeglin was less than obvious and never gave voice to what he desired; Turgon would have had no reason to see ill will in his sister's son, and was not going to search for it in his character. And that was just it. Maeglin was his sister's son. It would have broken his heart, if he had believed it. She said nothing.

Tuor cut through all of her loneliness, all of her fear, all of her uncertainty. He did not have to do anything extravagant or extraordinary to do so, and that was what was so extraordinary about it. He was kind, and friendly, and listened, and that had been all it took. Once again, Idril had a friend in whom she could confide anything. Her fears became annoyances; her uncertainties became worries about challenges that she was sure she could surmount. Her loneliness left her entirely. A burden shared was a burden halved.

With him gone, the world seemed much emptier. She remembered the lessons of the past—none of the problems that faced her now were insurmountable, and none of them were as bad as they seemed in the dark of night when she laid awake, sleep escaping her. The bed was bigger, too empty.

It was after midnight; Rána was high in the sky, and the stars glittered coldly. Idril never failed to be amazed at how quiet Sirion was at this time of night. If she had looked out of her window in Gondolin at this time of night, she would have seen a smattering of lamps still burning, as the taverns continued to do business, or as a smith who couldn't sleep worked through the night. Here, though, all was dark and silent. Perhaps it was because this was a city of refugees, who ever lived with the undercurrents of fear, and they did not wish to light beacons in the dark.

Whatever the reason, Idril encountered no one as she slipped out of her bedchamber and out into the moonlit corridors. The air was too close indoors; she needed to feel the wind on her face. As she passed shut doors, she heard naught but the occasional snores and, once, the sound of someone pacing.

Finally, Idril came to the main entrance of the palace, pushed the door open (no locks; she always marveled at that), and stepped outside onto the walkway. She drew a deep breath, drew her cloak closer about her shoulders (more for the comfort of it than the warmth), and felt the silence fill her up again.

The flagstones were clammy. Idril counted it strange that she noticed that, but stranger that they were. This was a warm night, and normally during the summer days she would wince when she walked upon them and step lightly to ease the pain; she had not thought they would be so cool at night. There were wiry tufts of grass growing up between the cracks, interspersed with tiny purple flowers. Idril remembered how, on nights like this, in Gondolin, she and Tuor would stay up late into the night talking, even hours after Eärendil had been put to bed. Nowadays, when she thought of something, she would roll over in bed and find it empty.

The sound of humming reached her ears.

Idril stiffened as a slight figure emerged from the gloom. The person, a nís or an Adan woman (she wasn't close enough to know for sure), was humming absently to the tune of a song Idril did not recognize. But it sounded Nandorin to her ears, and as the person drew closer, Idril saw that she was indeed a Nando.

Nellas picked her way delicately across the flagstones, carefully avoiding jagged edges and debris. Here was another one who preferred to go barefoot (though Nellas at least wore shoes in the winter months), another who understood the need to be careful where she put her feet. Nellas looked up sharply when she saw Idril's shadow on the ground, and nearly jumped when she saw the shadow's owner.

"Lady Idril," Nellas said awkwardly, staring uncertainly up into Idril's face.

"Mistress Nellas," Idril replied, feeling only slightly less awkward.

Idril had never been sure of Nellas's place in the Iathrim hierarchy. The nís was a Doriathrin Nando, perhaps one of Doriath's famed "Guest-elves"; Idril didn't know. She had no noble status, and yet the Sindar paid the sort of respect they would have paid a noblewoman—hardly the norm, Idril knew. Nellas was a member of Duileth's—formerly Oropher's—household, though her status seemed more akin to that of "ward" than "retainer." She often drank with Thranduil, the two of them passing a single bottle between them in silence. And yet she had no place on Elwing's council, no presence in that chamber. She flitted between the shadows as though she did not belong in the palace at all.

It was as though her thoughts had passed her lips into the air beyond. Nellas narrowed her green eyes thoughtfully, looking Idril over with an expression that softened to… Was that empathy? Perhaps it was. The sense of knowing another's pain, Idril knew that, and could see it in others. _Is that not the core of empathy?_ she wondered.

"There was a time," Nellas murmured, "when I would not have been able to stand living in such a place as this." She waved her hand first towards the palace, then towards the city. "I believed that to quarry stone was unnatural and an insult to the earth. To dwell beneath roofs of stone, be it in the great halls of Menegroth or a place such as this, no, that terrified me. I felt small, and insignificant. My place was beneath the trees and the stars, where I could feel the wind and the grass and the earth."

"What changed?" Idril asked. Though she did not intend it, her voice was nearly as hushed as Nellas's. It did not seem right to speak in normal tones at this time of night, when nearly all were sleeping.

She smiled, the expression caught between bitterness and something a bit sadder. "When Queen Melian forsook us and the power of the Girdle failed, necessity demanded that I come to spend my life beneath roofs of stone. It would be safer, or so I was told."

There was nothing Idril could say, and nothing she needed to say. They both knew that whoever had made those promises of safety to Nellas had been wrong, both knew that it was on account of Idril's kin that the Thousand Caves had fallen a second and final time. Idril knew that, in spite of this, Nellas had never expressed any overt hostility towards the Noldor, even though she had plenty of reason. Certainly, Nellas rarely made her feelings on any subject clear, and Idril was not as familiar with the Nando as she could have been, but she sensed no hostility there. It was more than could be said for many of the Iathrim, even those she personally called 'friend.'

"You have not been yourself of late, Lady Idril."

It was not a question, nor an accusation. It was not said in a tone of resentment or awe, nor one of pity. There was understanding in Nellas's eyes. She pushed a stray strand of curly brown hair out of her face, seemingly suddenly anxious as though she had finally remembered that she was having this conversation with the High Queen of the Noldor, but no matter what she might have thought, Idril felt no anger at her words. She felt no anger at Nellas's gentle probing as she might have had it come from another's mouth, presented in a different way.

Idril smiled slightly, but it was the distant, glassy smile she sometimes wore when the hours grew long and she wished, despite herself, to seek solitude and shut her ears to the ever-growing multitude of pleas from her people. "You speak the truth, Mistress Nellas."

Nellas stared down at her feet, the features of her small face twisted in a frown. "…Lady Idril, there was a time when Queen Melian came to me. She charged me with the task of caring for her and the King's foster-son, an Adan boy named Túrin."

Idril's eyebrows shot up, and Nellas, now watching her again, nodded and smiled sadly. "It is startling, the coincidences that rule our fates. Lord Tuor and I spoke about him, from time to time. I… I would suggest that though it is not wrong to grieve for the dead and the gone, it is enough to hold our memories of those we love in our hearts, without allowing our grief to alienate those still around us."

With that, Nellas slipped back inside, eyeing Idril warily as she went.

The next time they happened upon one another alone, they exchanged stories. Nellas no longer seemed wary around Idril after that.

**XI.**

Idril had heard so many conflicting bits and pieces of advice on how to deal with grief in her life, that she had already been familiar with the advice that Nellas gave her. The Exiles, those of them who were Aman-born or born after the Exile to Endóre, had never really come to grips with the idea that immortality meant nothing in a land where Morgoth held sway in the far north. It was not that there were different schools of thought on how to grieve as much is it was that there were no schools at all. The only commonality Idril had ever encountered was that since the Eldar were bound to the circles of the world and they would all see their dead loved ones again eventually, they should not make too much of a show of grief. It was disrespectful, it was missing the point.

The idea that a child was not to grieve "too much" for her lost mother had always irritated Idril, but nonetheless, never did she grieve too openly, or openly for too long, when someone close to her died. Or, in Tuor's case, simply went away. She liked to think that she would have followed Nellas's line of thinking eventually, that she would have remembered and honored, but not grieved. As it was, by the time she received such advice and remembered the truths she had always known, it had been high time to… Well, Idril didn't quite know what it was time to do. The bed still felt too empty. She still felt distant. But she remembered Nellas telling her of how Túrin's somber face would light up whenever he received news from his mother, remembered Tuor as he walked the streets of Gondolin with a wondering look on his face, and her heart hurt a little less.

All the same, she wished he could be here now.

And why not? It was the day (or rather, the evening) of their son's wedding. There had been so much to be done to ensure that this day would come, and at last, it had. Tuor had wanted to be here, and Idril had wished him to stay this long as well, but the time had come when he simply could not wait any longer, and they all knew it.

(Idril remembered her and Tuor's own wedding, as well. Her father had expressed the wish that Elenwë could be here to see it, and after that, her mother's ghost seemed to linger, and follow Idril wherever she went. She imagined not only Elenwë but Aredhel as well, the two of them providing all the encouragement and love that they would have given, had they lived. The absence of it was like holding a conversation with shadows, wishing for words and never receiving them.

Tuor wished for his parents. He spoke some of Huor and Rían, but mostly of his foster-parents, Annael and Gilrin of the Mithrim Sindar. Tuor was a child of the Edain, who lived short lives. He was a child of the Edain, who these days often did not live to see their children become adults. But he was in heart a child of the Eldar. Among the Noldor, weddings were family affairs; among the Mithrim, they were cause for celebration among the entire community. For friends, Tuor had only those whom he had befriended since coming to Gondolin. For family, he had no one.

In the end, Idril and Tuor had exchanged so many tales of late kin and friends that by the time of their wedding, it was as though they were there in truth. But it wasn't the same.)

Tuor was not there. Tuor was not there, and Idril was far from the only one who felt his absence. She sometimes caught Eärendil staring at the empty space at her side wistfully, his brow deeply furrowed.

"I know, Mother," he said with a bright (too bright) laugh when she pointed out to him what he was doing. "Please don't worry about me. I'm just thinking about all I'll have to tell him when we meet again."

Whatever worries passed through Idril's mind when Eärendil said that, she pushed away. They would be addressed, but they could wait until this day was over.

The chamber was crowded—frankly, far more crowded than the hall where Idril and Tuor had wed had been. The bride and groom would exchange rings in deference to Noldorin custom, but otherwise, the ceremony was to be a very traditionally Iathrim wedding. Among the Iathrim, when one of their nobles wed, it was to be an occasion attended by the entire court. Thingol and Melian had exchanged their vows in shadowed, secret places, but Dior and Nimloth's wedding had been a far more public affair, and now it seemed that Elwing and Eärendil's would be as well.

In fact, the chamber was so crowded that Idril had a difficult time moving through the crowd, as she tried to organize the assorted Gondolindrim and Noldor. Having to pull more than a few of them away from the table laden with bottles of alcohol and hiss at them to wait until _after_ the vows were said wasn't exactly the easiest thing to do when there was nowhere to direct them except to the small strip of empty space immediately in front of the table. (She suspected that she herself would be paying a visit to that table eventually.) The stormy weather outside, the skies dark and rain splattering on the windows, only served to make the chamber seem even more cramped than it already was.

Eventually, Idril made her way to the front of the line, smoothing down her skirt. From across the aisle, she caught Duileth's eye and the two nissi smiled ruefully at one another. Duileth had been doing much the same as Idril on the Iathrim's side of the aisle. Standing next to her, Thranduil already looked a little bleary-eyed himself.

There were absences here today, though, that stole a little bit of the brightness from Idril's smile. Galdor, Guilin, and the other Noldorin nobles living on Balar had come to Sirion to attend the wedding. The same could be said of all of the Iathrim and other Sindarin nobles living on the island. There were only two who were not here. The first was Galadriel, who was still barred from entering the Havens. The second was Celeborn, who had been invited, but declined to attend, sending back with the messenger congratulations and an apology to both Elwing and Eärendil, but no sign that he might be persuaded to relent.

Idril bit back a sigh and pushed the disappointment from her mind. A wedding was a family affair, a joyous occasion for the community, and many other things, but it was ultimately a day for those who were to be wed, not for their family, or their community. And there would be other weddings, perhaps in a time and place where Galadriel would be permitted to attend and Celeborn would not feel obliged to refuse to attend out of loyalty to his wife.

_And what reason have I to keep returning to such topics on this day?_

She decided instead to adopt her son's way of thinking. When she saw Galadriel and Celeborn, when she saw Tuor, she would have many stories to tell them. Idril was not sure that Eärendil had been telling her the truth when he had said that to her—certainly not the whole truth, and perhaps not the truth at all—but it seemed a better way to approach the pain of separation than becoming distant and feeling their absence like a dull, constant ache. _Between Eärendil and Nellas, I find all sorts of advice coming my way._

But all such thoughts were abruptly shoved away when the chamber door came open.

The chamber, which had only candles for lighting and thanks to the inclement weather outside was actually rather dimly lit, was suddenly flooded with blinding light. It was as though a star had come down from the sky and lit the room up with its radiance. Idril squinted against the dazzling blue-white light, looking towards the door where it emanated from. When she saw who was standing there, her heart sank in her chest like a stone cast into a well.

Elwing had arrived, and it was something she carried, strung around her throat by a glittering carcanet, that was the source of the light. Elwing had never looked more beautiful than she did when lit up in such a way—Eärendil was staring at her as though he had never seen her before at all. But she appeared also to be insubstantial, like someone had lit a candle behind a figure of silk. She looked eldritch and fey, and Idril was staring at her in shock.

She knew this light. She had been a tiny girl when last she saw it, but she could never have forgotten it, and even if she had not, Idril did not know of anyone who could mistake this light. She looked at it and saw what many claimed to see: lost glory once again shining undimmed. Ghosts danced in the rays of light it cast, and Idril knew that she was not the only one who could see them. Everyone in the chamber gaped at Elwing as she stepped forwards, watching the rippling light radiating out from her, their mouths forming soundless words.

Here was the source of woe for many, Fëanor's most prized creation, one of three. Here was the last remnant of the light of the Two Trees. Here was the Silmaril of Lúthien, cut from Morgoth's crown, in the Havens of Sirion.

**XII.**

She had not dared to say a word at the wedding, or at the feast (or what passed for a feast) that came afterwards. It would not have been wise. Idril knew that Elwing could not have possibly smuggled the Silmaril out of Menegroth the night of the sack by herself; a three-year-old girl could not possibly have done that by herself. It was more likely that Dior had passed the Silmaril along to one of his nobles before being killed, and they had taken it out of Sirion, and later presented it to the young queen. Though everyone in the chamber had been stunned by the effect of the Silmaril's, Idril had later realized that none of the Iathrim had looked surprised to see the Silmaril itself. Elwing's court had probably known, and had purposely kept knowledge of the Silmaril's presence secret from Idril and the Gondolindrim.

However, the days following the wedding were a different matter entirely.

" _I would have appreciated being informed," Idril told Duileth through gritted teeth._

" _Would you?" Duileth retorted, without a trace of her normal clever wit to lighten her words. Her eyes gleamed, sharp and cold, as she regarded Idril. "And what reason would I have had to do so?"_

The impression Idril got was that Duileth had not been happy when Elwing had appeared at her wedding wearing the Silmaril around her neck. However, that was all Duileth was willing to intimate to Idril on the matter, and the gaps left behind told her all she needed to know. There had not been and there was still not nearly enough trust between the Iathrim and the Noldor for the former to freely inform the latter that the Silmaril was in the Havens. It was frustrating, but Idril knew that she had none but herself to blame for not at least suspecting that such was the truth. _After all, would my cousins really have kept it quiet, had the Silmaril come into their possession once again?_

Far more worrying than the stilted conversation she had with Duileth was the more protracted one Idril had with Elwing.

"What do you mean, Lady Idril?"

Elwing was flitting around the room, straightening curtains, running her hands through her hair, and Idril felt her heart ache, for this was the most animated, the most cheerful that she had ever seen her daughter-in-law. Her voice was bright, almost sing-song, as she straightened up the bedchamber she now shared with Idril's son. In this moment, Elwing could have been any new bride, any young nís giddy and excited over being newly wed. But blue-white light suffused her skin, emanating from the jewel around her neck, and her eyes gleamed unnaturally bright. If this was what Lúthien was supposed to have looked like when she wore the Silmaril, Idril could understand why no one dared to challenge her possession of the jewel. Beautiful and terrible she would have been. Elwing was Lúthien's descendant, with only a fraction of her Maiarin blood and ostensibly none of her power, but Idril could barely look Elwing in the eye.

Idril faltered before going on. She was not sure of how to deal with an Elwing who looked and acted so cheerful. Never had Idril thought she would long to see the melancholy girl she had known, but Idril had never seen the feyness so many spoke of in _that_ Elwing. Why should a girl who had lost so much _not_ be strange and somber? Idril had grown so accustomed to seeing Elwing as strange and somber that seeing her in any other mood truly brought home the feyness that the others spoke of. There was an odd sense of unreality to the way Elwing was acting, a sense that Idril suspected had a great deal to do with the jewel shining at Elwing's slender throat.

"I…" Idril squeezed her eyes shut and forced herself to smile gently. "…I am amazed that you have had the Silmaril all this time, and said nothing."

Elwing stared at her uncomprehendingly, her silver eyes wide and shining as bright as lanterns lit in the dark of night. "It… Would it not be better," she asked uncertainly, "not to advertise the Silmaril's presence? Forgive me, Lady Idril, but I could never be sure that none of the Noldor here would send missives to the Kinslayers, if they saw me wearing the Silmaril."

The flaw in this logic was obvious, but if Elwing could not see it herself, it fell to Idril to point it out. "Why did you wear it openly at your wedding, then?" As bitter as the words were on her tongue, she went on, "Did you not fear betrayal then?"

This earned Idril another uncomprehending look, though now Elwing's lips were pursed in a frown. She looked a little more like herself, but no less fey. The young queen shook her head and muttered, "I could hardly have gone without it. I don't see why I should go without it."

The sound of rain pattering on the roof suddenly became very loud in Idril's ears. She knew better than to suggest that Elwing return the Silmaril to its original owners; she knew the (well-deserved) bitterness the Iathrim harbored against her cousins. But the turn this conversation was taking was worrying to her.

"Elwing, what exactly is the Silmaril to you?" Idril asked carefully, watching her daughter-in-law closely to gauge her reaction.

Elwing's tiny white hand fluttered to her throat. Her fingers clenched around the Silmaril; now, its light was like light emanating off of shards of broken glass, the parallel rays never touching. Elwing looked even more like herself now, as her expression grew closed and her gaze downcast. "It is memory," she murmured. "It is a balm. I wear the Silmaril, and I feel calmer, and braver. My mind is clearer than it has ever been when I wear the Silmaril. I wear it, and I remember, and yet I do not feel pain."

Idril stared at her, feeling empty, at a total loss for words. Her eyes lit on the rays of light emanating from the jewel. In one of them, Idril imagined a tall nís leaning close over Elwing, smoothing down her glossy black curls with a practiced, affectionate hand. In another, she saw the spectral image of a fair-haired nís and an Adan man looking at her, reaching their hands out towards Idril with blankly hopeful expressions.

"I could not bear to part with it."

Idril would never remember exactly what she said as she excused herself from the chamber. She would never forget the way she stumbled as she left.

Later, Idril met with the Noldorin nobles (sans Eärendil) in her study, bidding Pengolodh, the last to arrive, to shut the doors behind him.

Of course, the moment they were all assembled, it was Pengolodh who spoke first, his brow deeply furrowed. "Your Highness, there is a reason that I disbanded the House of the Pillar and the House of the Tower of Snow—what little was left of them," he amended with a grimace, "when we came here. I have no head for ruling or leading. I'm not sure what I'm doing here."

Sitting behind her desk still, Idril shot him a faintly exasperated look. "Pengolodh, I called you _all_ here—" at this, she waved her hand, encompassing Pengolodh, Egalmoth, Erestor, Raumolírë, Curulírë, Galdor, Guilin and Orelnith, the latter three of whom had yet to return to Balar "—because…" Idril paused. She had thought to say ' _I was seeking your insight'_ , but even before the words passed her lips, she knew that wasn't true. She wasn't seeking anyone's insight. That would imply that she hadn't already come to a decision, difficult though it had been. "…I wanted to be sure that we are all of one mind regarding the Silmaril."

There came a nervous shuffling of feet and rustling of cloaks from everyone present before Idril, as well as a multitude of nervous gazes. Idril bit back a sigh. "Well, I'm glad to see that none of you have dismissed this as a matter of minor importance."

"Your Highness?" Orelnith asked tentatively, brushing a lock of fair hair away from her face. Orelnith was the nís Guilin left in charge of the Nargothrond Exiles while he was away. She was supposed to be kin to the House of Arfin*, though Idril was not sure exactly what the relationship was. "Forgive me if this seems rude, but did Eärendil know that Queen Elwing bore the Silmaril before the day of their wedding?"

Idril shook her head firmly. "No, he did not."

She had asked her son; there was no avoiding that. If Eärendil had known about the Silmaril and kept the knowledge from Idril, she would have been furious. The excuse did not matter; Elwing could have implored Eärendil to keep it secret, and it would not have mattered. Given the influence even one could have on the course of history, considering the trouble that even one could attract, keeping secret the presence of a Silmaril in any fastness was the height of irresponsibility.

But Eärendil had not known. Idril had already suspected as much from the dumbstruck look he wore the day of his wedding, and his earnest pleas that of course he hadn't known convinced her that he had been oblivious, all this time. She did not know whether to be relieved that Eärendil had not been keeping the Silmaril's presence secret from her, or worried that Elwing apparently had not trusted her own husband enough to tell him about it.

"It should be returned to Fëanáro's sons," Galdor said suddenly. His jaw was set grimly, and he crossed his arms around his chest.

"Do you really think that the Iathrim would be content to let it go?" Erestor sharply interjected, marking perhaps the first time he had ever spoken up unsolicited in such a meeting. "After all that they suffered on account of it, do you really think that they would just give it back to the people who slew their kin?"

Galdor shrugged. "I would think that there are many who would be happy to be rid of it for that very reason."

At this point, Raumolírë and Curulírë stepped in. "You're both right," the former asserted. "The Iathrim are unlikely to relinquish the Silmaril willingly. All the same, it can't stay here. Better it be returned to the hands of the House of Fëanáro than fall into the Enemy's grip."

Curulírë laughed, a high-pitched, breaking laugh. "And how exactly do you propose we do that, sister?" A speculative gleam entered into her dark eyes. "I wonder how heavily guarded it is," she muttered, tapping her cheek with one finger. "I could slip in easily."

This was the point at which Idril felt obliged to intervene. "Now that's enough," she snapped, causing the two sisters and everyone else to jump. It was remarkable, how easily they had forgotten Idril was there in such a short amount of time. She glared at Curulírë, mentally expressing relief that it was _Raumolírë_ who was the elder, who was the Lady of the House of the Swallow, and not impulsive Curulírë. " _No one_ is stealing _anything_ from my daughter-in-law," she told Curulírë sternly. The younger nís at least had the grace to look abashed. "And even if she were not, I doubt that stealing that which the High Queen of the Sindar considers an heirloom of her house would improve relations between our peoples."

Idril's words were met with a more general sense of embarrassment, hanging heavily over the room. _Am I the only one who remembered that?_ Idril wondered, irritated.

"Then what would you suggest, Lady Itarillë?" Erestor asked quietly, his brow drawn up anxiously.

Idril sighed and leaned back in her chair. "We must do nothing. And before any of you object," she added, eyeing everyone in the room in turn, "please understand that I am not happy with this either. Understand that I am aware of the danger of allowing the Silmaril to remain here, rather than returning it to my cousins' hands. But Elwing is a sovereign queen, not one of my subjects. That she has wed my son gives me no authority over her; I can not demand that she send it away. We _must_ maintain good relations with the Iathrim. Or do I have to remind you of how fraught those relations were when we first arrived here, before being permitted to dwell in this city?" Idril asked with eyebrows raised. She was met with a silent chorus of sheepish looks. "The Silmaril must remain here, and none of you are to inform the House of Fëanáro that it is here. Do you all understand?"

No one was sure if, it came down to it, the Sons of Fëanor would slay Noldor trying to keep the Silmaril out of their hands. They had slain Falmari under their father's command, and there were many who had thought that, without Fëanor to influence them, they would not stoop to Kinslaying again. But then had come the second sack of Menegroth, and the Sons of Fëanor had proven that they were willing to stoop so low, even without their father driving them. There was every chance that they might do so again, and Idril knew that she could not count on the Noldor's even closer kinship to Fëanor's sons to save them.

The assembled nobles nodded or murmured assent, and slowly, they began to trickle out of the room. Finally, only Guilin and Egalmoth, both of whom had been silent throughout the meeting, were left. They both wore troubled looks on their faces.

It was Guilin who stepped forwards first, bobbing a shallow bow. His eyes were clouded, his face faintly strained. Idril wondered what he was going to say. Guilin was away so often that Idril was far more used to dealing with Orelnith than she was with him. "Yes, Guilin?"

"The Silmaril is accursed," he said shortly, meeting Idril's gaze with a strange intensity. "It brings woe to all who encounter it. The Iathrim should send it away, even if it is to those who have committed such grievous wrongs against them."

"I know," Idril said calmly. "But unless you know of a way that I can persuade them as much, I don't see how that is to be accomplished."

He nodded, bowed again and left. Apparently, that was all he wished to say.

After Guilin, Egalmoth stepped forwards. He looked no less strained than Guilin, though his worry was less foreign to Idril than the Nargothrond Exile's. "Your Highness, this is not a good situation to be in," he told her, his voice reflecting the worry on his face.

Idril nodded and, with a weariness she showed to few others, lifted a hand and rubbed her forehead. "I know that, Egalmoth." She knew that, with this plan, they would be sitting around and waiting for something to happen. Idril did not like any plan that forced her to wait for something to react to, instead of acting. "But what choice do we have? We are well-entrenched enough that the Iathrim can't just push us out of Sirion, but neither can we afford to alienate them by insisting that Elwing give up the Silmaril." She lifted up her empty hands helplessly. "Unless something changes, I don't know what else to do."

**XIII.**

It was a morning just as clear and quiet, the storms having vanished, when Eärendil left for the first time, as it had been when Tuor left for all time.

Eärendil left with little fanfare, as he had wished. He was not comfortable with adulation, not comfortable with being the focus of attention of a large audience. However, one of the two whom he had wished to accompany him to the harbor outside of the city was not present.

Elwing had refused to accompany Idril and Eärendil to the harbor. The news of her husband's leaving had stolen the last vestiges of cheer from her, and even the reassurances that of course Eärendil would return was not enough to put a smile on her face. She bore no love for the sea, and even less for the idea that Eärendil would not leave on a voyage to find Aman.

And truth be told, Idril was not enamored of the idea either.

"I wish you would reconsider," Idril murmured, as she pulled away from Eärendil and he disentangled his arms from around her back.

Eärendil shook his head vigorously. "No, Mother, I couldn't do that." He stared earnestly at her. "If there is no hope for us to be found in Endóre, then should I not appeal to the Valar in the Undying Lands?" His eyes gleamed brightly as they often did when he spoke like this. Lately, they seemed a bit too bright, as though they were reflecting remembered light from the Silmaril. Idril did not like seeing that feverish glow in her son's eyes. It was too much like the one that had entered into her father's eyes when he spoke in such a way of seeking pardon from the Valar.

Idril could have said that since the Valar had never offered them substantive aid before now, they seemed unlikely to do so just because Eärendil asked. She could have asked him why he expected to succeed now where so many had failed. But he looked so confident, so full of hope, that Idril could bear to say none of this. Instead, she forced a smile onto her face and said, "Well, if you do not find the Straight Road soon, I would ask that you return here. You're newly married, after all, Eärendil; I won't excuse you neglecting your wife."

Eärendil laughed ruefully. "Elwing asked me to return soon as well. Does everyone expect me to vanish without a trace?"

_Considering how many others have done just that…_

Her feelings of worry must have spilled over onto her face, because Eärendil reached forward to clasp Idril's hand and promised, "I will return, Mother. Whether because of failure or with an army at my back, I will return. And—" he stared down at the ground, his smile fading to something shyer "—if I see Father, I'll give him your love, if you wish me to."

Idril's smile was less forced this time, but it was crooked and she felt like someone had reached forward and closed their hand tightly around her heart. "Do that."

She stood there alone, watching his ship shrink on the horizon, for what felt like an eternity. Then, Idril drew a deep breath, and returned to the city, where she knew she was still needed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * Upon coming to Beleriand, Nolofinwë took on the name Fingolfin, a name that was derived from 'Finwë Nolofinwë', which was apparently the name he was signing his letters with back in Aman. Calling himself 'Finwë Nolofinwë' really pissed Fëanor off, considering that Fingolfin was drawing a great deal of attention to his relation to Finwë in doing that—it could be argued that it was improper for him to do so, considering that Fëanor was Finwë's heir. If Fingolfin had not done this, he likely would have been called 'Golfin' in Beleriand instead; 'Fin-' looks to be a prefix he adopted as a sort of kingly title. As such, I feel like Arafinwë wasn't being called 'Finarfin' until during the War of Wrath when he came over to Middle-Earth and the Elves there found out that he had become the High King of the remaining Noldor in Aman. Before then, he would have been called 'Arfin.'
> 
> Fëanáro—Fëanor  
> Itarillë—Idril


	4. Part Four

**XIV.**

In the beginning, Idril had hoped that Eärendil would make regular trips back to Sirion. More than hoping, she had been sure she would. There was Eärendil's love of the sea—Tuor had named him well—and his determination to uncover the location of Aman, even if the Valar would likely not render any aid to the Eldar of Endóre. However, there were also so many reasons for him to return home, perhaps eventually giving up on his search altogether (Though Idril was not sure that she would have been entirely happy with Eärendil giving up on finding Aman, since she knew what it represented to him, and what him giving up would have represented).

Chief among the reasons for Eärendil to stay in the Havens was Elwing. He was, as Idril had reminded him when he first set off on his journeys, newly married, to a wife whom he loved. It really wouldn't do for Eärendil to neglect Elwing, especially not so soon after they had wed. Elwing had suffered so much loss and abandonment already in her life. Idril did not like the idea of Elwing having to endure more loneliness than she already had. She liked the idea of Eärendil being responsible for that loneliness even less.

Unfortunately, Eärendil's visits back to the Havens of Sirion were few and far between. He would come back with his skin tanned and freckled, and his head full of wild tales of the far south and the open seas. He didn't notice the way his wife grew more withdrawn from him every time he left the city. He barely noticed the reproachful looks his mother sent his way.

Idril could see that she had underestimated how intent her son was on finding the Straight Road to Aman. _I must have been foolish to believe this was some passing obsession_ , Idril mused ruefully. _The members of my family aren't known for giving up easily. Would we have crossed the Helcaraxë if we gave up on our goals so easily? Even Maeglin never gave up on the idea of possessing me, as much as I wished he would._

This was far from a fleeting obsession. Eärendil possessed the same sort of desire to reach Aman that his grandfather had possessed. When Eärendil would return home after failure, his eyes were ever full of a feverish light that only left when he returned to the quays to depart once more. He reminded Idril of no one so much as Turgon when he waited for news from his mariners.

" _I fear for your safety."_

" _Mother, my safety is the last thing that should be on your mind."_

" _Eärendil, it is precisely_ because _I am your mother that I worry. You told me that you were forced to turn back from the open sea and make port in Anfalas because your ship was assailed by fierce storms. Fierce storms that came out of nowhere and ceased when you made port. Do you remember none of Voronwë's tales?"_

" _If Uncle Voronwë was here, he would agree with me. Reaching the Valar is more important than any one mariner's life. Even mine."_

It was usually at this point in the conversation that Idril had to stop talking for fear of saying something profane. If Duileth happened to be in earshot, she had no such compunctions. She was thoroughly unimpressed with Eärendil, especially considering that her queen was the nís he left behind like she was some peasant expected to faithfully keep the fire burning while her husband was away.

And there were other reasons Idril would have liked Eärendil to come home more often, too.

Strangely enough, Idril Celebrindal had never thought of what it would be like to be a grandmother. Even when Eärendil and Elwing had married, they were both so young that Idril had never contemplated either of them as parents. Though they possessed adult bodies they were barely even half-grown in the eyes of the Eldar, if that much. Parenthood should not have come for another thirty years, at least.

Then again, many things had occurred in Idril's lifetime that everyone agreed should not have happened. Doriath should not have fallen. The Union of Maedhros should not have failed. Fingolfin should not have been killed. The Noldor should not have left Aman. Death should never have touched the Undying Lands. At least there could be one unexpected thing in Idril's life that was a blessing, and not the herald of further woe.

Elwing had named her boys ( _twin_ boys!) Elrond and Elros; Eärendil had given them no names at all, and left their identities only half-formed. With their dark black hair, their gray eyes, their pale, flawless skin, the two bore their father very little resemblance. Elros, the younger, bore some resemblance to Eärendil in his bright, open manner, but Elrond was his mother in miniature, down to his solemn expression. Sometimes, though, something would make the little boy raise an eyebrow, and in those moments he looked so much like Turgon that Idril's heart would ache.

Turgon would never know them. Neither would Tuor, or Elenwë, or Aredhel, or Argon or Fingon or Fingolfin or any of Idril's other late kin. Idril Celebrindal lived in a world where there was so little left that most of her people would rather turn their minds to the past than risk having to confront the vast emptiness that laid before them. Now, her twin grandsons had been born into such a world. Now, Idril found herself with another reason to preserve and rebuild what the Noldor still had.

 _Never let it be said that I wish for you or your brother to grow up in such a world as this._ Idril held two-year-old Elrond in her arms and smiled (albeit a slightly pained smile) as he reached out for a stray lock of her fair hair and tugged hard. _You deserve more than a world in ruin._

She looked to the other side of the room, where Elwing sat, and sighed heavily.

When Eärendil was born, Idril had given him to a nurse as was the custom of the Noldorin aristocracy in Endóre. Meleth had been good to Eärendil, for all of the seven years that she was able to care for him. Meleth was dead, unable to look after her old charge's children. Glessil, the Sinda who had been found to act as Elrond and Elros's nurse, was a good, kind nís. Erestor and Nellas were often found themselves put on child-minding duty as well (And where Nellas was, Thranduil was never far behind, handling the twins with uncharacteristic uncertainty). Elrond and Elros had no lack of dedicated caretakers, but as for their mother…

As for their mother, Elwing seemed to have trouble working up the energy to look after them at all. She spent most of her time when she wasn't holding court staring out of a window or staring into the depths of the Silmaril. Always did she keep the Silmaril near her; if she wasn't holding it, she was wearing it, as she was now, though with a scarf around her neck to at least partially obscure its light. Between her duties as High Queen of the Sindar and her absorption with the Silmaril, she had little energy for her children.

Little energy and no joy. Idril had watched Elwing with her sons too long not to notice that though there might be some love in the way Elwing treated her children, she derived no joy from being mother to these children. She found no joy in caring for her sons. Looking after them for any length of time seemed to exhaust her. She would look at them with glazed eyes, as though she thought she was looking at someone else. Idril would be lying if she said she did not find this worrisome.

But it was hardly unusual for Elwing to act in such a way, and she had so much to deal with that Idril wasn't sure that it was fair to judge her at all. If she looked into her past, she would probably find that she had neglected Eärendil for an embarrassingly long time after the sack of Gondolin. Given time, surely she would warm up to her children.

(Idril ignored the fact that it had already been two years and Elwing hadn't warmed up to them in all this time.)

Affixing a hopeful smile to her face, Idril crossed the room to where Elwing was sitting, in a chair by the window. She stared out at the cloudy night sky, barely seeming to notice Idril's presence until Elrond began to fuss in her arms. "Lady Idril," Elwing said quietly, looking at Elrond with something very much like fear lurking in the back of her eyes.

"I think he wants you," Idril murmured wryly; regardless of whether or not this was the truth, she had never known a child who was unhappy to find themselves sitting in their mother's arms.

Obediently (too obediently), Elwing stretched out her arms, and Elrond was deposited in her lap. Elwing stroked his hair absently with one hand, but her mind was elsewhere, and her spare hand fluttered to her throat, clutching at the jewel that radiated light from underneath her scarf.

 _Just give it time,_ Idril told herself, trying not to worry (Too much).

**XV.**

She continued to make regular visits to the Isle of Balar. It was always important to keep in face-to-face contact with the Noldor there, especially those in leadership; while Idril was sure of their loyalty, it never hurt for everyone to keep up-to-date on what was happening in the Havens of Sirion and on the Isle of Balar. And perhaps she missed Galdor and Galadriel's company as well, separated by the bay as they were.

The refugees who continued to trickle in were saying something new about her.

In her time, Idril Celebrindal had heard many things said about her. There were those who thought that it was unnatural for a nís to rule over others, though thankfully over the years the ones who expressed such an opinion had grown fewer, their voices quieter. There were just as many who did not care that she was a nís, and Idril had little time to waste on confronting her people's ideas of what proper gender roles were. There were those who wondered if she was experienced enough to make a good Queen; there were others who said that Fingon had made a good High King, for all the time that he had been one, and though he was Crown Prince beforehand he had not seriously thought that he would ever have to rule. There were those who commented on her beauty (Frankly, with her plain clothes and her body grown quite thin from eating the same small amounts of food as everyone else, Idril knew that she was not at her best by any stretch of the imagination). Occasionally, she would hear someone whispering about how _sad_ it was that her husband had "departed", and Idril found herself gritting her teeth. Now, however, they were whispering about her eyes.

_Have you gotten a good look at the Queen's eyes? See how bright they are!_

_She was born in Aman, during the Years of the Trees; that's only to be expected. I think you're making a great deal out of nothing unusual._

_No, look! I've seen the eyes of the Lechind. This is different._

Idril was more inclined to agree who attributed whatever "brightness" could be found in her eyes to the residual light of the Trees. It no longer seemed strange to her, to look into the eyes of many of her people and see none of that light there; it had not seemed strange since her childhood by Mithrim, when she asked her (rather embarrassed) father why the new babies' eyes were so dull. The light of the Trees, though it seemed to live on in Rána and Vása, was just another thing the Noldor was steadily losing, though frankly Idril could think of rather more important things that needed to be maintained and preserved.

If there was any new "light" in her eyes, it might have been reflected light from the Silmaril. Idril didn't know that she liked the idea of it being _that_. Elwing's absorption with the Silmaril still troubled her; Idril was troubled, to watch Elwing's skin light up and grow like thin silk, to watch her daughter-in-law's eyes fixate on the Silmaril and seem to see nothing else. Elwing's silvery eyes shone with light, and Idril knew this to be the reflected light of the Silmaril. If Thingol had been the sole member of the Úmanyar to see the light of the Trees, maybe it was fitting that his scion saw a derivation of its light, but the idea that the Silmaril could be affecting Idril herself in such a way bothered her.

 _It is accursed._ However much she did not wish to address the issue, Idril knew that Guilin had been right.

But she tried not to think too much about the Silmaril (a situation that she could do nothing about), and Idril did not think too much about what it meant that certain people thought her eyes looked "bright", either. It likely meant nothing at all. _At most, all it means is that I need to sleep more at night._

"Grandma!"

"Grandma!"

The twins shrieked with joy and ran from their nurse's side when they spotted Idril walking down the hallway towards them. Idril beamed and dropped to her knees so that she could hug them and feel their small arms wrap around her neck. "Well, hello, my dears," she said warmly. "How have you been today?"

"Entirely too adventurous for anyone's comfort," Glessil supplied, before either Elros or Elrond could speak. There was a look on her face that seemed to be caught at the crossroads of fond exasperation and worry.

Idril met her gaze, brow furrowed. "How so?"

Glessil shuddered as she recalled the incident she wanted to recount. "I found them trying to walk on the windowsills on the third floor."

" _What?"_ Idril gaped, horrified, at her grandchildren. "What on earth possessed the two of you to do that?"

The two of them looked at one another, squirming, before Elros answered. "We… We wanted to see if we could keep our balance on the sill." He smiled winningly up at her, no doubt hoping to avoid a scolding. Elrond, who frankly was never quite so optimistic as his twin, stared down at the ground.

However, neither tactic would be enough to avoid a scolding. Idril frowned sternly at her grandsons, putting her hands on their shoulders. "You should never venture out onto a windowsill, unless it is on the ground floor. It is so dangerous, and I dread to think of what might happen to you if you were to fall. Do you understand?"

"Yes, Grandmother," the two said in unison, their little faces full of contrition.

Idril shook her head and looked to their nurse. "Have you informed their mother?"

"Not yet, your Highness. Queen Elwing is still holding court. I intended to once she retired."

Idril nodded firmly. "Do so." The twins' faces fell, and she frowned at them. "Do not think that you will escape your mother's scolding." At the very least, Elwing did seem to care when her children did something dangerous; she did not like to see them put themselves in danger.

Glessil ushered her charges away, and Idril stared after them, biting back a sigh. Though her grandsons were occasionally, as Glessil said, "too adventurous for anyone's comfort", they were dear children. And these spurts of "adventurousness", while spectacular enough to be memorable, were few and far between; Idril suspected that they would disappear entirely as the twins grew older.

In a few years, Elrond and Elros would be old enough for Idril to take them to the Isle of Balar with her. No one seemed able to agree on whether they were the heirs to Elwing's Kingship or Idril's, but either way they were young princes. The earlier they understood the responsibilities of their position. And whether they were Sindarin princes or Noldorin princes, it would be good for them to become familiar with their people on Balar, especially as young children. They had not gone yet because Elwing, who was far from fond of ships and sailing, did not wish for them to make the trip across the bay to Balar until they were older. But give it five, ten years, and Idril could take her grandchildren with her.

She suspected that she would like that very much.

**XVI.**

Idril was on Balar when it happened.

It was a chilly day in spring. They had received no forewarning, no letters such as were reputed to have been sent to Dior before the sack of Menegroth. There was, as Idril was to learn later from the survivors, no attempts at negotiation, no attempts at peaceful resolution before the battle began.

She was not aware of anything until a sentry saw a pillar of smoke rising up from the mainland. No one would be able to tell Idril if the fire had been set intentionally or if it was an accident, but the origins of the fire mattered not at all in the face of the destruction it had wrought, and the destruction that had preceded it.

The Sons of Fëanor had paid a visit to the Havens of Sirion.

Elrond and Elros had been taken by the Kinslayers; they were alive, but being held captive all the same. No one knew what had become of Elwing. There were some who were sure she was dead, just as many who were sure that she had been taken captive, and some who swore on the graves of their parents that she had escaped and had abandoned her people to their fates. No one could be sure of anything concerning Elwing, except to agree that it was obvious what the Kinslayers had come here for.

But they would not be going after either Elwing or her sons. Not yet. There were more immediate matters to concern themselves with.

"Have the search parties continue looking for any survivors, and get them to the quays." Idril surveyed the destruction and only felt her weariness grow greater. "We can't stay here any longer," she said heavily. "We'll have to fall back to Balar."

"Yes, Lady Itarillë," Erestor replied dutifully. His eyes were red and his voice raw and cracked; Idril suspected that he had been doing a fair amount of weeping before she had arrived, when no one could see. She wanted to stop, and comfort him. She wanted to stop, and give him some words of consolation, however useless they might have been. She wanted to, but couldn't. Idril was afraid that if she stopped, for any reason, she would collapse.

_Where are they?_

She kept willing herself not to believe that she would find her grandsons whenever she turned a street corner.

_Where is she?_

Idril kept telling herself that her cousins would not have taken Elrond and Elros captive if they had managed to procure the Silmaril.

_What am I going to tell Eärendil?_

She prayed that Elwing and her sons would be recovered by the time Eärendil returned.

In her mind, she prayed also that Elrond and Elros would be treated more kindly by Maedhros and Maglor than they had treated those they had killed at Menegroth, and here in Sirion. There were those who had sworn that the Kinslayers would never attack other Noldor. Certain of the Sindar had used this both as a reason to keep the Noldor in the Havens, and to view them with suspicion (suspicions that grew vaguer and weaker over the years, but never entirely vanished)—well, now the notion had been utterly dispelled. Idril spared a moment to cynically muse that perhaps this would help finally cement good relations among her people and the Sindar of the Havens.

"And I want you to find Egalmoth and tell him to report to me," Idril went on. She'd not seen Egalmoth anywhere; she could only assume that he was, like many others, searching the city for any survivors of both the Kinslayer's attack and the fire that had been set in their wake. "I need to speak to him."

"My Lady…" Erestor stared at her, his eyes huge in his smoke-stained face. "…Egalmoth's _dead_."

Idril felt her heart seize in her chest. "Oh." Her voice seemed very faint and far away. "I wasn't aware."

She remembered Egalmoth's misgivings over the Silmaril, and wished she had taken him to Balar with her, this time.

Erestor left her to carry out her orders. Idril stood outside the gutted ruin of what had once been her home, and surveyed the destruction before her. The white stones of Sirion were blackened; most of its homes and buildings had been destroyed by fire. Though many were trying as hard as they could to give the dead decent burials, Idril did not have to look far to see corpses, felled by the sword or by the flame. The visceral stink of death and fear and suffering stuck in her nostrils, so noxious that bile bubbled in her throat.

_How could they do this? Do they not understand that they are hurtling towards their own destruction? Now, there is no one whom the House of Fëanor can count as allies. They are the enemies of the world, as much as the Enemy. They lost two of their own today, and they still took Elrond and Elros!_

_I hope they are well…_

Idril drew a deep, shuddering breath, and squared her shoulders. There was nothing she could do for the dead, but she would do everything in her power to do right by the living. She was Queen. She owed the Noldor nothing less.

**XVII.**

The months and years dragged on horribly, and Eärendil did not return home. Idril wondered if perhaps he had somehow learned of the destruction that had overtaken his home and, believing his wife and sons to be dead, he simply did not want to go back to a place that held so much loss and pain for him. If so, why would he not at least send word? It had been long, so long, since she had last laid eyes on her son, and she had lost much in the Third Kinslaying too; there was little Idril wouldn't have given to know that her son was alright. And his lack of contact bothered her; what if his ship had at last been wrecked by the fierce storms Noldorin mariners faced in the western seas?

Her son did not return, and neither the Noldor nor the Sindar, even when they combined their forces, had enough soldiers to go after Elros and Elrond. Though no one was eager to admit it, between the two they barely had enough forces to defend the Isle of Balar if the Enemy was to set his sights to crushing them. The reports of how many men the Sons of Fëanor had had during the sack of the Havens were jumbled; there was no telling the sort of forces they possessed, and the survivors of the third Kinslaying could not afford to send soldiers after them to attempt to rescue their hostages. Somehow, Idril doubted that that would appease her son, if he came home to find his children gone.

In Elwing's absence, Duileth had taken control of the Iathrim and of any who would follow her banner. Idril, Duileth and Círdan cooperated in most things. Now that they were all living on the Isle of Balar, and now that the Iathrim, seeing that Idril's people were not safe from the Kinslayers on account of being closer kin to them, were feeling more sympathetic towards the Noldor, there was no reason not to. New tents were fashioned out of canvas and old sails and cloaks sewn together. When it became clear that Balar couldn't take the new influx of refugees, Círdan sent those who would leave to Anfalas, far to the south. Galdor led the Noldor of that group. He had promised to send word if Eärendil turned up there.

Meanwhile, Idril was left living what to her felt like a half-life.

Her duties as High Queen now commanded her attention during every waking hour, and the hours which Idril had to sleep grew ever shorter. Her family had all gone away from her—even Galadriel was absorbed by increasing duties in the healing houses, and had little time for her kinswoman. Any time Idril had to herself was spent sitting by the shores, as far away from the foul stench of the latrine trenches as she could get without being out of earshot if someone needed her.

Though Idril personally had little use for the sea, she liked to sit with her feet in the shallows, the brine swirling over her skin and the sand caking around her toenails. The rise and fall of the tides, its crashing and ebbing, had been a steady companion to her for many years, the only thing that remained constant while all else changed. She did not see Ulmo or his Maiar from the shore, and did not expect to. Círdan claimed to be blessed with prophetic dreams by the Vala of the sea, and indeed his knowledge of certain future events was reputed to be too accurate to be pure coincidence (Idril wished he could have predicted the sack of Sirion, before remembering that he would have hardly been the only one), but Idril had never been touched in such a way. She had good instincts for danger, but nothing in the way of preternatural knowledge of the future.

There she sat in silence. The rolling of the tide, her constant companion, and the forlorn cries of the gulls, a more intermittent one, filled her ears. There she sat, and wondered.

_Maybe I should have pushed Elwing to give up the Silmaril after all. I told myself that I couldn't do it, that she was a sovereign queen of her people and that trying to force her to do anything would only cause trouble. But I had my people to think about too. It was against the best interests of them, of everyone, for the Silmaril to remain in the Havens of Sirion._

_Should I have tried to force her, then? Tried to talk her out of keeping it? I don't know that I could have persuaded Elwing to relinquish the Silmaril, especially not after what happened to her parents and her brothers. How would she have taken it? Would it have driven a wedge between us? Between her and Eärendil? Between myself and my son? What would have happened if I had tried?_

_What would you have done?_ Idril wondered, thinking of Turgon, of Fingolfin, of Fingon and Finwë. She did not have to wonder what Fëanor or Maedhros or Maglor would have done in her place. All of her predecessors had had so much more to work with, before it all came to nothing. They had not had to make such momentous decisions in a refugee camp or out under the stars, dressed in clothes little better than rags and surrounded on all sides by the starving and the desperate. Would they have made better decisions, secure as they were, not worrying about keeping their neighbors happy with them, or being evicted from their homes if they failed?

Every day, Idril wondered about Elrond and Elros. How could she not worry about her grandsons? She wondered how they were faring, how much they had grown since she saw them last. She wondered if their captors had bothered to teach them how to read and write (they could do neither for as long as she knew them), if they bothered to give the boys any lesson at all. She hoped, she prayed (though she was not sure to whom it would do her any good to pray), that they were the well-treated, kindly-kept sort of hostages, and not the kind of hostage that Maedhros himself had been when he had been kidnapped by Morgoth centuries ago. She prayed that if she ever saw them again, they would not hate her for abandoning them.

And where was Eärendil? Where had he gone? He had never gone so long without coming home before; Idril had never gone so long without seeing him. Idril spent what little spare time she had watching the horizon for any sign of sails, any sign of the exquisite ship that her son and Círdan had built, and saw nothing. Her heart seized every time a white cloud appeared, lurking just above the surface of the waves. When she saw that it was nothing more than cloud, her heart sank in her chest, and it felt as though nothing would ever be enough to make it rise again. Was this how her father would have felt if she had ever gone missing? Was it how Fingolfin _had_ felt when two of his children and his granddaughter went into hiding without giving him any idea of where they were?

So where did this leave her? What did Idril have?

The answer came to her one evening, when a light shone down upon her head.

There was a new star in the sky, a star of great brilliance that followed Rána in the dusk and Vása before dawn. It was by far the brightest star that any of the Eldar had ever seen, blazing like white fire high in the sky.

Idril would have known that light anywhere.

And she did indeed know it, long before she was handed a telescope and saw that this light was in fact a ship, sailing aloft in the sky. She knew it before she was able to recognize the features of the sailor. A mother knows.

_He reached them after all._

Her son was dubbed Gil-Estel, Star of High Hope. A Silmaril blazed brilliantly high in the sky, another source of the Trees' light to shine down upon the Eldar. There were many who rallied merely at the sight of it, and plenty more who began to find their hope and courage again when they saw it.

If her son was to be called Gil-Estel, given a new name, Idril would rename herself as well. After the Silmaril rose in the sky, ferried across the heavens by Eärendil, son of Idril and Tuor, his mother was Idril Celebrindal no longer. Idril Gil-Galad she called herself, a new name for a new queen, when this infant star brought a message of hope to the Eldar.

She felt like a new person.

**XVIII.**

Idril had not ridden a horse, any horse, let alone one of Valinorean stock, since she dwelled in Gondolin. Though she had never been the avid rider that her aunt was, Aredhel had convinced her that it would be good for her to maintain a skill in riding. She had found that though she had little enthusiasm for riding, she was fond of horses, especially the more intelligent Valinorean stock, whom she almost felt like she could hold a conversation with. Unfortunately, the few horses that had escaped the destruction of the fall of Gondolin were butchered by the surviving Gondolindrim, starving as they were, for food.

The horse, a white stallion obedient to her commands but still prone to toss his head about from time to time, had been a gift. So too was the armor she wore now (And armor was just another thing she hadn't worn since the sack of Gondolin). Granted, both had been procured for her rather hastily; Idril wasn't sure who Arfin (Finarfin now; it seemed he had taken control of the Noldor remaining in Aman) had expected to find in charge, but she suspected that it hadn't been her. No matter. It was highly irregular for nissi to rule in Aman, but Finarfin had not said anything to that effect, had not treated her with anything less than respect, so Idril would respond in kind, and not point out that she wasn't what he had been expecting. Besides, she was grateful for any aid that could be rendered to the Noldor of Endóre.

The host of Aman (the host of the Valar, some were calling it, but seeing as the Valar had set their sights elsewhere and all Idril could see were Amanyar, she would call it the host of Aman) had come from the West, seeking at last to do war on the Enemy and his forces. It had been determined that the highest kings and princes would do better to stay on the Isle of Balar. Evidently, Manwë seemed to be of the opinion that their infrastructure would collapse if they were to lose their leaders; personally, Idril could have pointed to the number of times the throne she claimed had changed hands in the past six hundred or so years alone, but she was no great warrior, and secretly, was happy for the chance to stay away from the front lines. Besides, it gave her some free time to run an… _errand_.

While war was waged in the north, Idril rode east with a small escort.

The fortress atop the hill of Amon Ereb stood out like a gray tear in the blue sky. Though it could not have been a lot more than a hundred years old (Idril knew the construction of the fortress town to date to a time just following the Dagor Bragollach), it seemed weather-worn and crumbling, beaten down by decay and the passage of time. Idril remembered the way the walls of Sirion had crumbled so rapidly—not all of it was due to poor quality in the building of them, and she wondered if perhaps there was more to it than the hasty building of places of refuge in times of war.

Idril had expected the town that surrounded the fortress on the hill to be a small one. It had been originally constructed for use by Caranthir, Amrod and Amras's followings—Caranthir had lost most of his in the Bragollach, and the twin sons of Fëanor had never had that many followers to begin with. She'd not expected it to be this _empty_ , though, as she and her escort were admitted inside. She saw a few people here and there, poking their heads out of their homes curiously to see who it was calling on their lords, but the larger part of the houses and shops were empty, their windows dark.

 _If I had known there were so few people here, I probably could have rescued Elrond and Elros long ago,_ Idril thought bitterly. _There would have been no need to let their captors hold them for so long._

Idril noticed that there were no children anywhere in the town. No giggling reached her ears, no high-pitched laughs, no sounds of little feet against the cobblestones. She cast her gaze about the streets, frowning, her brow furrowed. Even the Isle of Balar had children.

_Are they still here?_

Her escort, three Vanyar who seemed wary at being so far from the host of Aman (Idril wouldn't be surprised if their parents had made them be good as children by frightening them with tales of the dangers of Endóre) were bid to wait outside of the fortress. Idril herself was allowed inside without incident. A groom hurried up to her to take her horse to the stables. A few young soldiers peered curiously at her from the door of the barracks. No one tried to divest her of Hadhafang, her sword.

Though Idril had last laid eyes on Maedhros at the Mereth Aderthad, during what felt like a different life, she would have recognized him anywhere. No one else she had ever known was so tall, had such vivid red hair—the fact that he had but one hand was a bit of a tell, too. The same went for Maglor, who was following close on his brother's heels out of the fortress itself and into the courtyard. She took a deep breath, and drew herself up to her full (unimpressive compared to them) height as they approached.

 _Be polite_ , Idril told herself. She was not sure what to say to them, besides the messages she carried and what she brought herself. What could she say to the two, Kinslayers three times over, her grandsons' kidnappers? What pleasantries could she possibly exchange with them? All the same, Idril was aware that Maedhros and Maglor's depleted forces were still more than a match for her and her escort. She couldn't afford to deliberately antagonize them, not more than was necessary.

Maedhros stepped forward, Maglor standing back just behind him. They both looked as though they'd not eaten a day's worth of decent meals or procured new clothes in a very long time; in spite of her new armor, Idril doubted she looked any better. "Greetings," Maedhros said, in a sort of tone that at first sounded deliberately neutral, but after thinking about it, Idril decided just sounded dull. His eyes appeared dull as well, like two dark pebbles eroded by wind and time. His brow furrowed and some life entered into his mask-like face. "I understand that you are the new High Queen." Idril wasn't sure where the uncertainty in his voice came from; the coronet she wore should have given him some idea of what capacity she came to them in. Maedhros's uncertainty managed to make his perfect Quenya sound halting and gauche.

Idril nodded firmly. "I am indeed," she replied, staring unsmilingly up into Maedhros's face. There was a faint, silvery scar on his cheek, barely noticeable, that danced with the twitching of a vein in his jaw. "And before we go any further," she went on, her voice hardening, "you will bring my grandsons to me. I wish to see them."

"I can do that." Maglor spoke for the first time. His voice, though still lovely to the ear, held only a vague remnant of the power she remembered from so long ago. However, there was a bit more life and liveliness in him than there was in his brother. There was still a spark in his pale eyes.

He disappeared back inside the fortress, and did not return for several minutes. In the interim, silence reigned between Idril and Maedhros. Maedhros ran his fingers over the stump of his right arm, frowning deeply, though Idril was beginning to wonder if that hadn't just become the natural cast of his face at some point. Idril was becoming increasingly uncomfortably aware of how hot the flagstones were on her bare feet. On occasion, Maedhros would open his mouth as though he wanted to say something, but no words ever escaped his lips. When he did so, some strange expression, something like reminiscence or longing, would dart over his face.

When she was a child, she'd harbored no grudge against these two. The House of Fëanor had abandoned her and her kin in Araman, but with a child's mind Idril had thought that Fëanor's sons would have had no choice but to obey their father. How could they have done anything less? Maedhros was Fingon's close friend, and Maglor had always been kind to Idril when they met with one another. Aredhel had thought kindly of the sons of Fëanor, though rather less so after the abandonment in Araman. Idril wondered if, truly, her aunt had ever forgiven them for that; she knew that her father hadn't, and with discomfort she knew exactly why.

Idril did not think that she would ever hate the House of Fëanor with the sort of fervency that her father did (Or claimed to). She was not sure that she could ever hate someone that much. But at the same time, she was not sure that she could forgive what they had done. There was also the fact that Idril was far from the only one who would need to forgive Maedhros and Maglor for their deeds to be forgotten. She was far from the only one they had wronged.

How had it come to this?

As soon as that question crossed Idril's mind, she knew the answer. The Oath. It always came back to the Oath. It was either the force that drove the sons of Fëanor to shed the blood that now stained their hands, or the smokescreen with which they tried to excuse their own behavior. Who knew which?

The oaken double doors swung open. Maglor came back down the steps, and for a heart-stopping moment, Idril thought that he was alone, that she had been tricked and that they were dead after all. But then, two much smaller people popped out from behind Maglor. Idril's heart leapt into her throat.

The Sindarin words from her grandchildren's lips were more welcome than any Quenya that Idril had ever heard. "Grandmother!" She would never know which one of them had spoken first; it barely seemed to matter. They had grown, Elrond and Elros, standing several inches taller than they had when Idril last saw them. They were older, bigger, and it _hurt_ , seeing them and knowing how much she had missed, but here they were, alive, and as happy and as healthy as she could have expected them to be.

The twins stopped just short of Idril, standing as tall as they could manage, and sporting wide smiles. Like their captors, they were rather thin, but they were also growing boys, and no less thin than they had been in the Havens of Sirion. They were dressed neatly, in tunics and trousers that looked to be in somewhat better condition than Maedhros and Maglor's; the cut of their tunics' collars, high and stiff, was very traditionally Noldorin. Their dark hair was trimmed neatly at the shoulders, as was customarily done for Noldorin boys who had not yet reached their majority, and their dark eyes were just as starlight-bright as Idril remembered.

Elrond opened his mouth to speak, with such a solemn air about him that he had likely been planning to give her some sort of formal greeting, but Idril dropped to her knees and threw her arms around their shoulders before either of them could say anything more. The twins squirmed and giggled in her embrace. Idril felt a lump forming in her throat.

After letting go of her grandsons (and readjusting her now-askew coronet), Idril stood and turned her gaze back on her cousins. "I need to speak with you both," she said, as firmly as she could manage after having been watched by these two as she reunited with her grandchildren.

Maedhros nodded, and started back towards the fortress, beckoning after him for Idril to follow. Idril thought to herself that she remembered his manners as being much better at the Mereth Aderthad than they were now. Similarly, Maglor beckoned to the twins. "Come along," he called to them, and Idril watched, thunder-struck, as they smiled at him and followed. Trustingly. There was no mistaking the trust in the way they simply followed after Maglor when he told them to. There was not so much as an ounce of fear in either Elros or Elrond.

_Well, I suppose that may make part of what I am here to do easier._

Idril was ushered into the great hall; she doubted that Amon Ereb boasted a chamber fitting to host the High Queen of the Noldor, so this would suffice nicely. She, Maedhros and Maglor sat down at the high table, while Elrond and Elros went to sit in a sunlit corner and whisper amongst themselves, occasionally staring shyly up at the table where their grandmother and captors-caretakers sat.

Idril's first question was a simple one. "Where is Elwing?" she ground out, reminding herself over and over again that she could not scream at these two in their own place of strength and that it would set a bad example to scream in front of the twins.

This, it seemed, was not the best question to ask. Maglor and Maedhros exchanged long glances, before the latter nodded shortly to his younger brother. Maglor seemed to be having difficulty meeting her eyes as he explained, "On the day of… Elwing jumped from a window on the highest floor of the building I found her in. The window overlooked the sea; she fell to the rocks below." Maglor stared at the twins, a far-away look in his eyes. "I can't imagine that she survived."

"Then how do you explain how the Silmaril she bore came to be in my son's possession, high in the sky?"

They both flinched, but any sympathy Idril felt for them was quashed when she remembered the blackened stones of Sirion. "I can't," Maglor whispered, his shoulders sagging.

It was Maedhros who spoke next, staring at her speculatively. A shrewd look was stealing over his face, a welcome reprieve from the vast emptiness Idril had been confronted with in the courtyard. "I doubt that this is the only reason you rode so far to speak with us, Itarillë."

Idril's mouth twisted in an expression halfway between a bitter smile and a grimace. "Indeed, it is not." She clasped her hands in her lap, something she had done in Gondolin when she wanted to ensure that she would sit more straightly. "As we speak, the Valar are at last waging war on our great Enemy. A great host has come out of Aman, let by Ingil Ingwion of the Vanyar and our uncle, Arafinwë, who is High King over those Noldor who remained in Tirion during the Revolt."

If they were surprised by this, neither Maedhros nor Maglor let it show on their faces. Idril herself was unsurprised by that; she had spent so many years perfecting her ability to school her face so that nothing unwanted showed itself there that she had little difficulty believing that they might have done the same. She went on, "Eönwë the Maia has asked me to relay this message to you. If you humble yourselves before the Valar and seek forgiveness, you will be allowed to return to Aman to be judged for your crimes."

A flicker of something like hope passed over Maglor's face, but Maedhros shook his head sharply, his face twisting in an expression that wasn't quite a scowl, too pained to be a scowl. "That, we can not do. Our Oath binds us still, cousin. It can not be foresworn." Beside him, Maglor nodded, his gaze downcast.

She had not really expected them to agree to Eönwë's offer. There wasn't much there to entice either of Fëanor's surviving sons, not even a promise of forgiveness and a vow to find some way to undo the binding of their Oath. If Idril didn't know better, she would have sworn that Eönwë had worded his offer in such a way to make Maedhros and Maglor _refuse_ to accept it.

So much the better for Idril. The fact that they had not agreed to return to Aman allowed her to make a request of her own.

"Then, my Lords," Idril said with a businesslike air, " _I_ have something that I want you to do."

"And what is that?"

"I want you to take Elrond and Elros and go south out of Beleriand."

Idril wasn't sure what it meant, that she was pleased to see that her request had visibly shocked them both. Maybe the part of her that sometimes still longed to use sarcasm was simply pleased to see that she still had the capacity to shock people.

"I… I would have thought that you would demand that we handed them over to you," Maglor practically stammered, his eyebrows rising ever closer towards his hairline.

She nodded. "I supposed that you might. Make no mistake, Makalaurë; under different circumstances, I would do exactly as you said. But right now, the Isle of Balar is no place for children. Asides from that, I have begun to hear rumors that the Valar are not planning to allow any of Beleriand to remain after the Enemy is vanquished." _Trust them to do unspeakable damage when they finally set their minds towards helping._ "As such, I would prefer that my grandsons are far from Beleriand as soon as possible, and seeing as they are already in your _custody_ , it seems only fitting that you should be the ones to take them to safety. When the Enemy has been vanquished and the world has been set to rights, I will come to find you, and _then_ I shall retrieve my grandchildren."

Maedhros's already-present frown deepened. "And what are you prepared to offer in return?"

Idril glared icily at them both. "I am _prepared_ to promise you that when all of this is over, I will _not_ have you dragged back to Valinor in chains. I am _prepared_ to promise that no one under my authority will have you dragged back to Valinor in chains when this is over. I can not speak for anyone else, but that is what I promise you, Maitimo."

The silence that followed could not have been pierced by Oromë's hunting horn.

After a long moment, Maedhros opened his mouth to answer, but Maglor was quicker. "We'll do it," he promised her, and after a long moment, Maedhros nodded his agreement.

"Good."

After that, Idril said her goodbyes to the twins, promising that she would return to them, that she would come find them when it was safe for her to do so. After their parents had went away from them and never returned, she owed them nothing less. She did not plan to stay in Amon Ereb any longer. Idril was needed on Balar, and frankly, she had no desire to stay here any longer than she had to.

As she was mounting her horse, Maedhros approached her. "If," he said quietly, "no, when you ride into battle, you should think about wearing boots instead of leaving your feet bare. When your enemies see that your feet are unprotected, they will aim for them specifically."

Idril raised an eyebrow. "When you do battle, do your opponents aim for your right side specifically?"

Maedhros actually smiled briefly at her, albeit a rueful, lopsided smile, and nodded acknowledgment.

With that, she rode away from Amon Ereb. Idril Gil-Galad had a great deal of work to do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Arafinwë—Finarfin  
> Makalaurë—Maglor  
> Maitimo—Maedhros
> 
> Lechind—'Flame-eyed'; a name given to the Noldor by the Sindar, referring to the light of the Trees that shined in the eyes of those Noldor born in Aman during the Years of the Trees (singular: Lachend) (Sindarin)  
> Úmanyar—those Elves not of Aman  
> Amanyar—those Elves of Aman


End file.
